ii'?X-*<<''y-',< tf^v'^^ 'i\ rcCharlo^ Kitulu\ JKOj. ^. U' DRAMATIC SCENES, jjc. ^vamatit ^ctnt&. SONNETS, AND OTHER POEMS. BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, AUTHOK OF fOSCAKI, JULIAN, AND OUR VILLAGE. LONDON: GEO. B, WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA LANE. 1827. LONDON: PRINTED BY R. GILBERT, ST. John's square. l^'l fc TO HER KIND AND EARLY FRIEND, WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE, ESQ. M.P. IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY THE AUTHOR. MS(KMM)3 CONTENTS. DRAMATIC SCENES. PAGE Cunigunda's Vow 1 The Fawn 27 The Wedding Ring 57 Emily ., 83 The Painter's Daughter 107 Fair Rosamond , 133 Alice 163 Henry Talbot.* • 185 The Siege 219 The Bridal Eve 249 The Captive -. 269 Masque of the Seasons.. 283 Sonnets 291 Songs 317 Antigone 327 Independence • 337 Watlington Hill 345 Weston Grove « 373 DRAMATIC SCENES. CUNIGUNDA'S VOW A DRAMATIC SCENE. The story which forms the groundwork of the following short drama, will be fomid in Mr. Russell's delightful volumes on Ger- many ; it has also given occasion to a very spirited ballad by Miss Landen, inserted, if I mistake not, in my friend Mr. Watts's Literary Souvenir for 1826. B 2 CHARACTERS. CuNiGUNDA, Lady of the Kienast. Sir, Albert, a stranger Knight. EiiXEST, Cunignndas aged Seneschal. Gertrude, i _, > Her waitinq women, Editiia, 3 Otto, her page. Squires, pages, grooms, and waiting ivomen. Scene, a hall in the Castle of the Kienast in Silesia. CUNIGUNDA'S VOW. Enter Ernest, to Gertrude and Editha. Ernest. Where is thy lady, Gertrude ? Gertrude. On the turret Watching the first glimpse of the stranger knight Who comes to-day to attempt the perilous feat Ordained by her rash vow. Editha, Poor Cunigunda ! Now pays she dearly the o'erweening pride Of haughty beauty. Love hath well avenged His martyred votaries. Ernest, Speak not with that tone Of pity, maiden ! I'm an old retainer Of Cunigunda's house ; have carried her 6 DRAMATIC SCENES. A smiling cliild within mine arms ; liave loved her Even as a father, as a father gloried In her unparagoned charms. But her cold cruelty Doth fret my very heart-strings. Not enough For this proud beauty to reject all hearts Of knight, or count, or prince, — for princes sued At Cunigunda's feet — but she must tempt Each wooer to his death, grim ghastly death, Untimely bloody death, by that stern vow That he should win her, who should safely ride Around these Kienast walls, — the narrow walls, Of these steep mountain towers ! She might as well Command them ride upon a falchion's edge, Or stand erect upon the topmost spray Of yon tall poplar. Many a gallant steed Lies whitening in the abyss, many a brave knight Hath perished in the rocky gulph ; — and now Another victim comes ! Editha. One — If he fall. The shades of all that for her sake have died, cunigunda's vow. Were they as countless as the leaves that dance In Hirchsberg vale, would be avenged ! She loves him, Believe it, Ernest, with the fervid love Of stern and haughty hearts. Ernest, Believe who will ! She, thy proud mistress, love the falcon knight ! Albert the falcon knight ! A wandering stranger, Whose house, whose name she knows not. Tush ! Editha, Yet Albert Is the sole name she speaks ; the falcon crest Her only heraldry. Ernest, Princes have sighed For Cunigunda, and that she should sigh For this poor knight— Gertrude She doth ! Ernest. One all unapt To win a lady's eye ! She that beheld Unmoved the gay Count Cassel, whose light step Came bounding like the roe, whose glance shot fire,— She that beheld unshaken his bright form 8 DRAMATIC SCENES. Lie stiftand mute before her, — she lliat saw, Without a tear, the bleeding mangled corse Of Rudolf of Thuringia, blooming boy, Fair, slender, blue-eyed boy, whose nut-brown curls Clustered o'er his white brow, whose damask cheek, And coral lip, and brilliant smile, and round And joyous voice were redolent of youth, And hope, and life ; — think'st thou that she, whom bloom And charms like these ne'er touched, can love yon sad And pallid stranger ? Editha. With idolatry, Passing what hath been told or feigned of love In story or in song. Unapt to win A lady's eye ! Ernest, thou hast been trained In courts, and camps, and battles ; thou know'st well All that pertains to man, but woman's heart To thee is a sealed book. I tell thee, Ernest, Yon pallid stranger, with the serious grace Of his fine features, delicate yet full Of mild conmiand ; the dark locks closely shorn cunigunda's vow. 9 Around the noble head ; the manly form Where grandeur blends with elegance ; the voice Clear, deep, and ringing, fitting instrument Of lofty thought ; the reverential port Majestically bending with a proud And prompt obedience, to the very name Of woman rendering homage ; — such an one Might win — Gertrude. She comes ! Enter Cunigunda and Otto. Cunigunda. Unbar the gates ! Be quick, Unbar the gates ! Why bide ye loitering here When ye should fly to bid the Castellan Give present entrance to the falcon knight — The valiant falcon knight ? \_Exit Ernest. Ye dally here, Whilst he stands waiting, — he ! Why of themselves The Kienast gates should ope to him. 10 DRAMATIC SCENES. Otto. He's here, Fair MacUim. Enter Sir Albert and a Page. Cumcjunda. Now, Sir Albert! Albert. Beauteous lady, I come to win thee. — Bid them lead my courser Round to the court of guard. Is't not the way That we must gain the ramparts ? \_Exit Page. Sweet, I come To win thee or to perish. Cunigunda. Oh, No ! No ! Albert. Why, thou shouldst arm me for this viewless peril As for some tourney fray. Why dost thou sigh ? Why turn so deadly pale ? Cunigunda. 'Tis a vast peril ! Albert. 'Twas thine own vow imposed it ; thine own choice ; cunigunda's vow. 11 And now 'tis mine. I knew afore I saw thee What danger must be dared for Cunigunda, And knowing came. Thou wouldst not sure fright me With that same bugbear Peril ? I'm a warrior Trained to defy, to seek each several form Of death in glorious battle. Wouldst thou teach me A cowardice now? — Farewell ! — The sun shines bright On hill and valley ; the soft breezes play O'er leaf and flower ; over our heads the lark Chaunts his gay matins ; Nature smiles on me And my high purpose ; — for this deed is holy, Thrice holy, lady ! — When I come again — Farewell ! Cunigunda. Oh go not ! go not ! Albert, Cunigunda Hast thou not sworn to yield thy hand to none, Save him who rides unscathed around these steep And narrow walls ? Is not that oath proclaimed On earth, and registered in heaven ? Cunigunda, Alas ! 12 DRAMATIC SCENES. Albert. And I too have a vow recorded there To do this deed or perish. Cunigimda. Oh, go not! Not yet! not yet ! Albert. Why should I dally? Cunigunda. Stay A month, a little month ! Thou wilt not ? Then A week, a day, an hour ! Grant but such respite As the poor sentenced criminal may claim When he craves time for prayer. — Oh, go not yet I Not yet ! not yet ! Albert. Is this the soft relenting Of woman's tender heart to all whom pain Or danger threaten ? Didst thou thus implore Henry of Cassel ? or the gentle boy Young Rudolf of Thuringia ? Cunigunda, No. Oh, frown not, Nor turn away thy head, nor snatch thy hand From mine ! They knew the peril that they braved, And they would brave that peril. Canst thou blame me cunigunda's vow. 13 That I ne'er loved afore ? that I love now ? Oh, go not, Albert ! A Ibert. Lady I am bound By a strong fettering vow. — If I return This hand is mine ? Cu?iigu7ida. Ay, hand and heart. Yet go not! Beseech thee, stay with me! Albert. When I come back Thou art wholly mine ? Cunigunda. Ay ; ay. But go not yet ! Albert. Mine to dispose even as I will ? Cu7iigunda. Ay, dearest, Even as thou wilt. But stay with me awhile ! Stay ! stay ! [^Exit Albert. Editha, He's gone ! Cunigunda. Oh, stop him ! Say I beg ! Say I command ! Fly ! fly ! [Exit Otto. And yet my oath, 14 DRAMATIC SCENES. My fatal, fatal oath ! Without such trial We may not wed — But, oh, to see him clashed, As they have been, from off the wail and lain A pale disfigured corse — Oh horror ! horror ! Re-enter Otto. Stop him, I say ; and if need be by force. Command him hither. Otto. Lady Cunigunda. Dost thou hear ? Where is the falcon knight ? Am I not mistress Within these towers ? Command him hither. Otto. Lady, Even as he left thee, at a bound he sprang On his proud steed, and scaled the rampart stairs ; Ere now he's on the walls. Cunigunda. Oh save him! save him, Ye saints that watch o'er love ! Go some of ye To the high turret that o'erhangs the Castle, And look ye send me blessed tidings — no ! cunigunda's vow. 15 The truth ! the very truth ! Are ye not gone ? [Exeunt Otto and Gertrude, Editha. Wilt thou not go thyself? 'Twere a less grief Than crouching there in that strong agony Of fear — thy head between thy hands, thy limbs Shivering, thy bosom panting. Go ! Cunigunda. He'll die ! He'll die ! And how could I endure — He'll die For me ! for me ! Editha. Take comfort, lady. Curiigunda. Comfort ! Who ever passed that dread abyss, where yawns The Hirschberg valley under the high rock Crowned with our frowning battlements, or dared The desperate leap from tower to tower, nor fell Crushed, breathless, motionless ? Who e'er returned Alive ? — Oh horror ! horror ! Edith, fly ! Speed me some tidings. [Exit Editha. \6 DIJAMATIC SCENES. He must die ; aiul I — I that so loved him, I that would have given My hfe a thousand fold to save him — I Shall be his murderess. Enter Ernest. Ernest, Nay, lady, nay, There's yet a hope. Cunigunda, Old man, art thou turned flatterer ? He'll perish. Ernest. I beheld the maneged steed Ascend the steep and narrow stair ; a steed Of Araby, light-limbed and fine, with eyes Of living fire half starting from his slim And veiny head ; a hot and mettled steed ; Yet trained to such obedience, that each motion Of the swift foot seemed guided by the will Of the bold rider, even as they had been One and incorporate. If man may atchievc This perilous deed, the falcon knicrht alonr — CUNIGUNDA S VOW. 17 Cuniyunda, Ernest, thou shalt have lands enow to > make Thyself a belted knight ! Now blessings on thee That bring'st me hope ! — But Edith, Gertrude, Otto, Why come they not ? I could have won to Prague And back, in half the time. Why come they not ? Good tidings find swift messengers. Alas ! I fear ; I fear, Ernest. Shall I go seek them ? Cunigunda. No. The abyss, the dread abyss, where the old wall Shelving, and steep, and crumbling, overhangs The vale of Hirschberg from such dizzying height As never plummet fathomed ; that abyss — Henry of Cassel there, and the good knight Of Olmutz — Oh I have been cruel, Ernest, And for my sins he'll die ! to punish me He'll die ! he'll die ! 18 DRAMATIC SCENES. Enter Gertrude. Gertrude. Lady Cunigunda. Why dost thou pause ? Ernest. See how she pants ! she's breathless. Cunigimda. Is there any Panting and breathless save myself? He's dead ! I see it in her face. Gertrude. He hath safely passed The abyss. Cunigunda. Now thanks to Heaven ! The dread abyss. He's safe ! he's safe ! Thou shalt be portioned, Gertrude. He's safe ! Ernest. Yet that wide leap from tower to tower Where Rudolf of Thuringia Cunigunda. Out on thee. Raven ! Ernest. That fearful leap, with scarce a ledge Where steed (Shouts without. cunigunda's vow. h) Cunigunda. What means that cry ? Re-enter Otto and Editiia. Editha, Otto, What means that cry ? Edit ha. He's safe ! The leap is past ; The falcon knight is safe ! Ernest. Look to her ! Cunigunda. Nay I'm well. Say o'er again ! Edifha. The leap is past. The falcon knight is safe. Cunigunda, My Editha, Ask what thou wilt of me. Was ever woman So blest before ! The falcon I night is mine, Mine own, and I am his. Oh, thanks to Heaven ! Now, ye that called my vow cruel and rash, What say ye now ? Ernest. Alas, dear lady, still I grieve for them that c 2 20 DRAMATIC SCENES. Cunigitnda. Talk not of them. Think What were a thousand such as they, compared AVith the bold falcon knight !— Editha, Gertrude, Albert will come to claim his bride ; wipe off These blistering tears, braid this dishevelled hair, Adjust my wimple and my veil ; — my knight Will come to claim his bride. Enter Sm Albert and a Page. He comes ! away ! I was a fool to think of vanity ; He will not love his Cunigunda less That she hath lain on the stone floor in prayer And tearful agony, whilst he hath dared This perilous deed. Albert! Albert (to a page,) Lead Saladin Gently around the court. He trembles still At the o'ermastered danger. Cunigunda, Albert ! cunigunda's vow. 21 Albert (still to the page.) Loosen The foaming bit. It is a matchless steed. Cunigunda, Oh matchless ! matchless ! I myself would be His groom. But Albert ! — Albert. When he's cooler, bid Thy comrade, Jerome, ride him back to Prague. Bring thou another courser straight. The day Wears on. [-Cxii Page. Cunigunda. Sir Albert ! Albert. Madam ! Cunigunda. Hast thou not A word for Cunigunda ? Dost thou stand There, like some breathing marble in thy cold Stern haughty beauty, mute and motionless, With arms close-folded and down-gazing eyes, No thought for Cunigunda, not a word For her whom thou hast won, not even a look? Dost thou not claim me, Albert ? Albert. Lady, no ; DRAMATIC SCENES. I have a wife ay, start and tremble ! turn As pale as winter snows ! feel every pang That thou hast caused and scorned ! 1 have a wife, A sweet and gracious woman ; beautiful Beyond all beauty, for the blush of love The smile of kindness, and the dancing light Of those joy-kindling eyes in whose bright play The innocent spirit revels, blend their spell With features delicate as lily bells, A shape more graceful than the clustering vine. Talk of thy stately charms ! At Ida's side Thou would'st shew coarse and sunburnt, as the brown And rugged elm beside the shining beech, Ay, shrink and tremble ! hide thy burning cheeks Within thy quivering hands ! — Wilt thou hear more ? — This lovely loving wife, my three years' bride And twice a mother, — Oh none ever bent With such a grace as she o'er sleeping babes. Nor ever youthful mother bent o'er babes So like the Cherubim ! — This wife, so fair, cunigunda's vow. 23 So sweet so womanly, whose pitying heart Would ache to see a sparrow die, this wife I love. Cwiigunda, Why then Oh cruel ! Albert. Dar'st thou talk Of cruelty, proud murderess, whose meed For true-love hath been death ? Whose sinful vow Slew the most gracious boy of all the earth, The hope and pride and joy of his high line Young Rudolf of Thuringia, my dear brother, My dear &nd only brother ? Ernest. 'Tis Duke Albert ! Yet pity her ! See how she smites her brow, And tears her raven hair ! Albert. Where was her pity When that fair boy — Murderess, 'tis Rudolf's brother That speaks to thee. When first I heard that tale, Several revenges, deadly, bloody, fierce, All that the body can endure of keen And lengthened agony, the rack; the wheel, 24 DRAMATIC SCENES. The stake rushed through my brain, but they had been A poor and trivial vengeance, all unmeet For such o'erwhelming wrong ; my cunning hate Hath found a more enduring curse. Thou lov'st me. Thou lov'st me, Cunigunda, with the hot Wild passion of thy nature, and I scorn thee ! Thou art contemned and loathed by whom thou lov'st ; Won and abandoned ; spurned and thrown aside Like an infected garment. The plague spot Of sin is on thee, woman ; blackest shame Shall follow like thy shadow. 'Twas for this I donned the mask of courtship ; for this trained My faithful steed. Thy worthless hand is mine Nay touch me not, hang not about my knees Mine to bestow. Some horse-boy of my train Shall prove thy fitting partner. Editha. Oh for pity ! For manly pity, good my lord, break not The bruised flower ! Cunigunda. Be silent, Editha ! cunigunda's vow. 25 I liave deserved all evil. Deal with me Even as thou wilt, Duke Albert. I've deserved Thy hate — but soon my heart — my bursting heart Deal with me as thou wilt. 'Twill not be long ! Albert. Nay then — Rise, Cunigunda ! Lift thy face From off the ground and listen. I'll not break The bruised flower. Live and repent. In prayer And pious penance live. The cloister cell Were thy meet refuge. By to-morrow's dawn Go join the Carmelites at Prague. For them Who died untimely, for thyself, for me And for my children, pray ! Now home, Sir Page ! My steed ! my steed ! [Exeunt. THE FAWN. A DRAMATIC SCENE. The story of this little Drama is taken, with some variation in the scene and catastrophe, from the beautiful ballad entitled Pause Foodrage, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. CHARACTERS. Countess Lindorf. Bertha. Leopold. CONRADE. Frederick. ScEy^E, a Forest in Boheinia; — a Castle in the back- ground. THE FAWN. Leopold alone. Leopold, Lie there, dark murderous weapon ! I renounce thee ! Farewell, ye barbarous sports! Alas, poor fawn ! ^'n^er Bertha. Bertha. Did I not hear a gun ? The poor, poor fawn Licking its bleeding mother! This is cruel. Leopold. Oh cruel ! cowardly! Never again I hate my treacherous skill ; I hate myself. Bertha. Look how the poor fawn with his nudging nose And pretty stamping'feet, dabbled in blood, so DRAMATIC SCENES. Tries to awake his dam ! How piteously He moans, poor spotted thing ! Art thou quite sure The doe is dead ? I thought I saw her move. Leopold. Too sure. 'Twas not her motion ; that fond thing Striving 1 cannot bear to look on them ! She is too surely dead ; when I came up I found her dying ; her fine delicate limbs Trembling with the death- shiver. She scarce breathed ; But the pure instinct of maternal love Struggled to keep in life. She fixed her sad Affectionate eyes upon her young one's face, Then moaning over her as now he moans, Stretched out her feet, and died. Oh, lady Bertha, Man is the wilder brute ! Bertha. But thou art grieved And knew'st not — No, I'm sure thou ne'er didst dream Of this poor fawn ? Leopold. No ; it lay sleeping there Behind the bushes. But a savage heart THE FAWN. 31 Was mine, that could even here — Look round thee, lady ! There is not in the forest such a spot As this. Look how the wood-walks hither tend, As to a centre : some in vistas green, Pillared and overarched, as the long aisles Of an old proud cathedral ; others wandering In lovelier mazes through a various scene Holly or copse-wood ; scarce the eye can trace Their coy meanders, but all meeting here Beneath this monarch oak, through whose thick boughs The sun comes flickering. How the indented leaves Of brightest green cut clearly the blue sky And the small clouds ! And how this tiny spring Bubbles and sparkles round the moss-grown roots. Winding its silver thread along the short Elastic turf, so thickly set with flowers. And mixed with fragrant herbs, till it is lost Amongst the bowery thickets ! Not a spot In all the forest can compare with this, Nature's own temple ! And that delicate thing 32 DRAMATIC SCENES. Made up of innocence, and love, and fear, And trembling happiness, most beautiful Of all this beauty, she, who stood enjoying, With a sweet peaceful spirit, drinking in This flood of bliss, — that I — I hate myself! And thou must hate me, lady. Bertha. Oh ! no ; no ; Thou art so sorry ! Leopold. 'Tis my father's fault : He keeps me here, waging unequal war With these poor harmless deer, when I should be Armed in the desperate strife, stemming the tide Of glorious battle, winning death or fame. Bertha. That were a strange place to learn gentleness! Leopold. The only place for me. Oh, I must forth Into the stirring world ! I have wild dreams Which I would fain make real ; daring thoughts Which must be turned to action ; hopes which soar High as the eagle's wing ; all madness now But Lady Bertha, I have basked too long THE FAAVN. 33 In the bright blaze of beauty ; I have gazed Unseen, unknown as our poor forest cot Looks upward on thy castle. I must gain A name, or die. A glorious name! Bertha, Nay, Leopold Leopold. She knows me ! Bertha, Leopold Leopold. Oh now that name Is precious to my heart ! Thou know'st me lady ? Bertha, Think'st thou I thus had spoken with a stranger ? I've often seen thee at our early mass, ilnd sometimes from the ramparts ; and besides My own dear mother oftimes talks of thine — — Her faithful favourite maid. Leopold. She was her maid ; Her favourite maid. Oh I had not forgotten. Bertha. And of thy father, her kind faithful friend That old and reverend man, whose shining hairs, Whiter than ermine, so become his bright D 34 DRAMATIC SCENES. And healthful cheek. How much I love to see him! How much I wish to know him ! My dear mother Talks oftentimes of him. Aye, and of thee — Oftenest I think of all. Dost thou not know That I'm thy foster-sister? That one breast — Alas, that breast is cold ! — nourished us both ? And that we should be friends ? Oh I have longed, Even in the holy chapel, to say this ; But my stern uncle Leopold. Kindest, loveliest maid ! How well that heart is mated to that face ! And does the gentle Countess speak of me — That beautiful grief ? Yes, I have often seen, Have often felt those dewy eyes where love Mixes with pity as in angel's looks. Fixed upon mine, as she would read my soul. Oh ! she would find it full of deep respect For her — and for her daughter. Bertha, Leopold, Look! the poor fawn hath moaned himself to sleep! THE FAWN. S5 Give Ivim to me, I, captive though I be, Or Httle better in those frowning walls, Yet have I there a lone deserted nook Which long neglect hath made a sort of garden ; All clothed with moss, and grass, and trailing plants And decked with gorgeous weeds. The wild vine there, And white veined ivy form a natural arbour ; And I have mingled odorous shrubs, and sprinkled Bright showers of garden blossoms. It is now A bower fit for the fairies ; and unclaimed Of any other I still call it mine ; And there my pretty fawn shall dwell with me And feed on roses ; — my poor dappled fawn ! No ; not in thine arms. Give him into mine. Leopold. Nay, let me carry him ! Bertha. Oh ! no, no, no ; I must not ; dare not. Leopold. Only to the gate. Bertha. The gate ! Then I must tell my truant tale, Must own my wanderings. First put down the fawn, D 2 •"G DRAMATIC SCENES. I know not why— but, Leopold, I feel As if I had done wrong — as if — and yet I'm sure I meant no harm. Let us sit here On these soft mossy roots. It is, indeed, A chosen spot ! Well, Leopold, thou know'st That my good father died ere I was born, A luckless girl ! and that his castle, lands, Titles and vassals, to his brother fell, And I, amongst the rest, his infant ward. With my dear mother I have lived with him In a most strict seclusion — prisoners In every thing but name ! For eighteen years, All my short life, we ne'er have passed the gate. Leopold. Villain ! base cowardly villain ! Soon a time Shall come- Go on sweet lady ! Bertha, She still mourning Her lord's untimely death ; and I Leopold. Oh villain That drink'st the orphan's tears ! A time shall come — THE FAWN. 37 Bertha. Nay, peace ; I prythee, peace ; I still con- tent — Content is not enough ! — I still as happy As a young bird. Leopold. Happy ! with that fierce tyrant, That stern oppressor ! Bertha. He was sometimes kind And my dear mother always. All the house Was good and kind to me — too good ! too kind ! Oh ! there is in man's heart a fathomless well Of goodness ! I had nought but gratitude. And yet how kind they were ! Content and happy Was I ; yet sometimes an unbidden thought Sprang up — a hope— a wish — an earnest wish ! A powerful passionate hope ! We had a maid Bred in the forest, — a young innocent girl. Who pined for trees, and air, and liberty, Even till she sickened, and her round red cheeks Grew thin and pale ; and books, dear books ! they all Of freedom spake and nature ; and the birds 38 DRAMATIC SCENES. That eddied round our windows, every song Called me to lovely nature ; till I longed Intensely, as the schoolboy yearns for home, To cast aside only for once the walls Of our old castle, and to feel green leaves About me, and to breathe the pleasant air. Freshened with wilding flowers and dewy grass And warmed by the bright sun. Leopold. And did the Count Refuse thee, lady ? Bertha. Yes. Leopold. But they, his vassals? Surely one only man of all the world Could utter no to thee ? Bertha. I asked them not. Have I not said that they were good and kind, — Kindest to me ? And could I tempt them on To possible punishment. Leopold. Punished for thee ! Oh ! what a bliss ! — But thou art here ? THE FAWN. 30 Bertha. I found The lone deserted court 1 called my garden, And dressed my bower, and tried to trifle thus My bootless wish away : — But still it clung ! And one day following, with my eye, my heart, A ring-dove hastening to her woodland nest. Wishing I too had wings, I marked how low In that dark angle was the ruined wall. Covered with clustering ivy and o'erhung By an old ash. And almost with the thought. The ivy boughs my ladder, and the ash My friendly veil, I climbed the wall and came Down on the other side, a safe descent. Propped by the uneven trunk ; — and there I stood Panting with fear and joy at liberty ! Yet was I so o'ermastered by my fear, That for that day I could not move a step Into the forest ; but crept trembling back — And wept as if for grief. Often since then, When the Count Lindorf is abroad, as now 40 DRAMATIC SCENES. That he Hes sick at Prague, I venture forth As fearless as a dove. Leopold. And still unmarked ? Bertha. The sheltering forest reaches to the wall- Look, 'tis close by! — I never have seen trace Of man but once ; then thou wast reading here : I had resolved if ever I should meet Thee, or thy good old father, to accost ye ; Yet when I saw thee here — I know not how — But my heart failed me, and I fled. I wonder At to-day's courage ; but the poor, poor fawn — I only thought of him. Well, I must hence ; My mother else may miss me. Leopold. Then the Countess Knows not this path ? Bertha. No ; her sweet gentle spirit Is cast in a too anxious mould ; she fears For all she loves. No ; I have never told her. But now that we — and she must see my fawn ! Aye — and she ought to know. THE FAWN. 41 Leopold. And when she knows — Oh, lady, I shall never see thee morel Bertha. Yet I must tell her — Surely I must tell her! She is my own most dear and loving mother: — Ought I not, Leopold ? Leopold. Lady thou should'st ; Though it will root from out my heart a hope Deeper than life ; thou should'st. Bertha. Give me the fawn ! And, Leopold, stay here. I think — I hope That she will wish to see thee. If she should Come not with me. Be sure to stay just here. Farewell ! — Nay, struggle not, my pretty fawn ! Thou must along with me, Farewell! [Exit Bertha. Leopold. Farewell, Loveliest and most beloved ! Well might she wish To tread the woodland path, — light-footed maid ! How beautiful she is, with her white arms Wound round her innocent burthen, and her head 42 DRAMATIC SCENES. Bent over his so lullingly ! Even he, That wild and timorous creature, feels the charm, And is no more afraid. She disappears ; — I scarce distinguish now her floating veil And her brown waving hair. How beautiful ! How graceful ! Most like one of Dian's nymphs But full of deeper tenderness. Her voice, Her words still linger round me like the air, The dewy sunny air of which she spake. Glowing and odorous. Oh ! that I were — And I will be. Yes, loveliest, most beloved, I will deserve thee ! I will make my name. My humble lowly name, worthy to join With thine, sweet Lady Bertha 1 — Hapless thing, Thy gay compeers may bound at peace for me ; I shall seek braver fields. For thee, poor doe, I will go bury thee deep in yon dell. Should she return, — and will she then return ? How my heart throbs to know. THE FAWN. 4ii Enter Conrade. Conrade. Surely I saw Some bright and lovely maiden flitting by Close to the castle wall. Along this path She must have come. Or was it but the vision That fills my dreams by night, my thoughts by day, The bright and lovely form ? — Ha, Leopold ! Hast thou seen here a woman, a fair woman ? Leopold. She has just parted hence, the Lady Bertha. Conrade, Bertha ! Oh I must see, must follow her ! Leopold. Nay, 'tis too late. Ere now she's in the Castle. She will return. Conrade. Oh, wondrous, wondrous chance ! The Lady Bertha ! — Did she speak to thee 1 What seems she, Leopold ? Gay, gentle, kind, Her mother was. Oh, tell me of her, boy ! Leopold. Father, I must to the wars. Conrade, Tell me of her ! 44 DRAMATIC SCENES. Leopold. I must go win a name. Conrade. Well! Well! thou shalt. Talk to me now of Bertha ! Leopold. This is Bertha ! Why war and fame and life they are all Bertha ! Nothing but Bertha! — Oh, I love her, father, Madly and wildly. She is my whole world, Rip up my heart and you will find all Bertha ; And I will wed her. I must to the wars j\nd earn her love. Nay, shake not thus thy head. Though she be great and I be lowly, father, I tell thee I will make a glorious name, Or die. Conrade. This is most wondrous. But the Count — Count Lindorf 1 Leopold. Oh ! true love is strong and mighty ; Pride bends before it. Conrade. Were it pride alone ! Count Lindorf, as I hear, would rather see The Lady Bertha in a convent cell THE FAWN. 45 Than wedded. He is dark and dangerous, And full of fears. Men say — Leopold. Speak on, speak on. What say they, father 1 Conrade. Dark and dangerous A fierce and gloomy — Nay, no more of this. Whither dost drag that doe ? Leopold, To bury it Far from her sight ; she will be here anon. She fain would know thee, and she speaks of thee So reverently ! In truth she is as humble As a poor village maiden ; yet as gracious As a born princess. I shall soon return. Stay, dearest father, lest she come the while ; She fain would see thee. [Exit Leopold. Conrade. Oh if she could know, Could feel, could share — Be still, my beating heart ! Thou shalt not master me, be still ! — She comes. The beautiful ! the kind !— Oh, that I dared — 46 DRAMATIC SCENES. Enter Countess Lindorf and Bertha. Bertha. This is the spot I'm sure; but where is he? Conrade. These are the first words I have heard her speak In all my life ! How mine ear drinks her voice ! The Countess too ! Countess, Conrade, my kindest friend ! My faithfullest ! my best ! How many cares Have made me old since in thy parting tears I said Farewell to truth and honesty ! Conrade. My gracious lady ! Coimtess. Conrade, where is he ? Conrade. In yonder dell. She hath caught sight of him. Bertha. Ah, there he is burying the poor, poor doe ! I must go help him. Countess. First come hither. Bertha. This is my faithful friend — Bertha. Leopold's father, I know him well. He is no stranger, mother ; THE FAWN. 47 Why I have loved him ever since I saw Those reverend hairs ; and he I'm sure loves me. Dost thou not, Conrade ? See, he looks at me With such a kindly gaze. Conrade. How beautiful She is ! What a bright smile lives in her eyes ! And see ! her soft white hand is dimpled o'er Like a young babe's. Oh, take it not away, That soft and dimpled hand ! Countess. No, rather give Both hands, my Bertha. He's thy foster father. Bertha. May I not call him father ? I, alas ! Have never known one. Conrade. Blessings on thy head, Beloved child ! Countess. Now, my own Bertha, go And seek young Leopold, and bring him hither. Nay, let her go ! — \_Exit Bertha. Yes, Conrade, she is more 48 DRAMATIC SCENES. Than thy heart paints her : through these long, long years My only comfort. She is all made up Of sweet serene content ; a buoyant spirit That is its own pure happiness. If e'er Count Lindorf chide her — and, in sooth, even he Can scarcely find a fault to blame in Bertha — But should he chide her, she will meekly bend For one short moment, then rise smiling up. As the elastic moss when trampled on By some rude peasant's foot. Never was heart Stronger than her's in peaceful innocence. Now speak of him. Conrade. First, Madam, he loves her. I knew it but to-day. Countess. So ! She loves him, And knows it not. But tell me of his temper. Conrade, Kind, noble, generous, but all too hot : Just like those bright black eyes, whose fiery flash Kindling with living light, I've seen thee watch With such a painful joy. THE FAWN. 49 Countess. I have gazed on liim Till my eyes ached, till every sense was dazzled. Yet with that fire there was a gentleness, A softer, tenderer look. And still he knows not — Conrade. I dare not trust him, lady. He already Abhors Count Lindorf ; he already longs For war, for danger, for renown, for aught That at the risk of life or limb may win A name, a noble name. ^ Coimtess. A noble name ! He pants for that ! And I, that with a word— ^ Oh, may I ? dare I ? Conrade. Noble lady, no. The Count is dangerous, and this rash youth — Countess. True ; true. And I expect my powerful kinsman The Baron Zutphen ; he shall hear my story. My sad, sad story, Conrade. Oh. the strife Of love so long pent in, so strong, so deep, So gushing through the heart with bitter fear ! 50 DRAMATIC SCENES. And I that ne'er have known the dear deUght To give him pleasure — Oh, to think that I Could with a word, one word — I must away ; I dare not trust myself. Good Conrade help me Back to the Castle. Conrade. Rest thee here awhile. Dear lady !— How she trembles !— Nay, sit down : Command thyself. Re-enter Leopold ayid Bertha. Bertha. Mother ! Countess, Who called me mother ? Leopold. Let me support her. Lady, lean on me. Countess. His very tone ! Bertha. How art thou, dearest mother ? Countess. Better. Bertha. But still thou tremblest, and so pale ! Leopold. Oh, do not rise. Thou art too weak ! Countess. A strong And a kind arm supports me. THE FAWN. 51 Leopold. Never, Madam, Was it so honoured. Would that all my life Might pass as this brief moment ! Countess. Leopold I think. Leopold. And for my father's sake, perhaps — Countess. Thy father ! Aye indeed thy father ! Leo* pold, I have a boon to ask of thee. Leopold. A boon ! Say, Madam, a command. Countess. Well ! a command. Conrade hath told me thou wilt to the wars ; I have a powerful kinsman, young and brave, High in the Emperor's favour ; I expect him At Lindorf in the autumn. Be content To wait his coming, and my first request Shall be that he will guide thee in that path Of stainless honour which himself hath trod. Say, wilt thou wait till then ? E 2 52 DRAMATIC SCENES. Leopold. How can poor Leopold, The humble lowborn Leopold, deserve This wondrous bounty ! Not for the wide world, Not even for her would I deceive such goodness. Madam, all poor and lowly as I am, Yet I have dared to love— Oh pardon me ! Even if thou banish, pardon ! — Who could see Thy Bertha and not love her ? Countess. And what says My Bertha to such love ? Bertha. My dearest mother. What is that proud word rank ? What hath it been But the stern prison-bolt that barred me out From air, and sunshine, and the song of birds, And the sweet scent of flowers ? And must it now Exclude — Enter Frederick. Frederick. Thank Heaven she's found ! I have sought thee. Madam, THE FAWN. ^S Every where vainly. I have that to tell Which may not brook delay. Countess. Is the Count Lindorf Returned ? Frederick. My gracious lady, he is dead. Conrade. Dead ! Frederick. Even so. Last night Count Lindorf died. Countess. No, no,hehves ! the real Count Lindorf lives! My son ! my son ! my own, my very son ! Thou for whose sake I have endured to live In prison and in sorrow — thou art mine. My Leopold ! In the face of all the world I will proclaim thee rightful Count of Lindorf. Leopold. Mother ! I do not ask if this be real, My heart hath always claimed thee. Yes ; I am Thy son, thy very son. Bertha. And the poor Bertha — What then is she ? Countess. My daughter, still my daughter. 54 DRAMATIC SCENES. Leopold. Bertba my sister ? Countess. No ; thy wife. Will that Please thee as well ? And our dear Conrade's child. Conrade. My own sweet child ! Countess. My son, thy speaking eyes Demand my story. Briefly let me tell A grief which eighteen years have left as fresh As yesterday. Thy father was a man Born to lead all hearts captive. Such he was As thou art now. Look at the features, Frederick — The shape, the air. Frederick. It is his very self. Countess, I loved him — we were in our bridal year — Oh how I loved him ! So did all the world Except his envious brother. They went forth Together, at the break of day, to hunt Here in this very forest ; and at eve One — only one — returned. Mine — mine— O God ! The agony, the frightful agony When he at last was brought — O God ! THE FAWN. 55 Leopold. My mother ! Countess. Some tale was told of direful accident — Would that I could believe ! But from that hour Peace, rest, and appetite and natural smiles Forsook the conscious fratricide — Oh guilt Hath well avenged us ! But, ere yet the flush Of bold triumphant crime had paled to fear, And dark remorse, did Conrade overhear — For I was great of thee, my Leopold, And grief and horror had brought on my pains, — This Lindorf bribe a ruffian to secure My infant, if a male. Thou, sweetest Bertha, A new-born innocent babe wast in the castle ; And he, and my kind nurse, and she the kindest And faith fullest of all, thy blessed mother. Contrived, I scarcely conscious, to exchange My boy for his fair girl. — A boundless debt We owe thee, Conrade. Conrade. Pay it to my Bertha. Leopold. She is herself that debt ! What was the life 56 DRAMATIC SCENES. Of fifty such as I, compared to Bertha ? A paltry boon, scarce worth my thanks, clear father ! She is the treasure ! She — Bertha. Cease, flatterer, cease ! 1 must go tend my fawn. Countess. My son, I long To see thee in thy castle. Frederick. Ye will find The Baron Zutphen there to greet ye, Madam. He came to proffer succour and protection To thee and Lady Bertha ; he will now Welcome his brave young kinsman. Not a heart, Vassal or servant but will feel the joy Of this discovery. Countess. Leopold, my son — How proud I am of that unwonted word ! Let us go meet the Baron. Bertha, Conrade, Daughter and friend, come with me ; this kind cousin Must see how rich I am! Mine own dear son ! THE WEDDING RING. A DRAMATIC SCENE. The old ballad of The Berkshire Lady, which recounts an adventure that actually happened above a century ago to one of the most respectable families in that county, is the origin of the following drama. The names andlocahties that I have chosen are of course fictitious. CHARACTERS. Sir Edward Delmont. Arthur Delmont, his brother. The Lady Stanley. Scene, a magnificent Saloon in the house of the Lady Stanley near Reading. THE WEDDING RING. Sir Edward Delmont, and Arthur. Sir Edicard. Why thus amort, fair brother ? Tis a rich And princely hall, a palace-like demesne. Seest thou yon stately oaks and those old thorns, The growth of centuries, mingling their gay wreaths Of pearly blossoms with the weeping spray Of the light feathery birch, and darker shoots Of shining holly, while amidst the fern The dappled deer lie couching ? Art thou master Of this fair seat ? Arthur. I'faith I know not. Sir Edward, 'Twas A gay and glittering coach, drawn by four mares GO DRAMATIC SCENES. Of the light Flanders breed, conveyed us hitlier ; And she our fair companion mistress seemed Of that proud equipage — the nameless she ! Arthur. Not wholly nameless, — Mary ; — the good priest Told us so far. Sir Edward. And in so telling told Full little. Mary ! commonest of sounds. Name of all wear ! So doth the lordly Earl, So the poor cobbler call his wife ; the princess Within her stately bower, and the coarse drudge That milks her kine, both answer to that name. 'Tis general as the violet, now lurking Beneath the white-thorn hedge, now proudly placed r the garden's southern nook beside the rose. She's Mary Delmont now. Dost shrink to hear Those words conjoined? Arthur. Not I. Sir Edward. Yet thou art sad And silent, brother mine ; thy cheek is pale, THE WEDDING-RING. Gl Thy fiery glance is quenched, and thy smooth brow Contracted mto Hnes of wrinkhng care Fitter for me thine elder ; though I grant ye The cl.ances of this morning might perplex Even my ripe wisdom. Wilt thou hear them ? First To abide a challenge at the rapier point, The cause and challenge unknown ; and then Having with some small pain — for true men love not To fio'ht with shadov/s and for shadows ! — havino; Roused thy hot valour to that Quixote strain, To find thy puissant adversary changed To a fair damsel, who doth give thee choice 'Twixt two sharp hazards, wedlock or the sword ; To marry in a mask, thou know'st not whom ; To come home with thy bride thou know'st not where ; And when safe lodged within this goodly chamber The bride to disappear thou know'st not how ; Whilst at short intervals come grinning knaves, On thriftless errands bent> to trim the hearth Or close the casement, and young tittering girls G2 DRAMATIC SCENES. Thrust giggling faces through half open doors, And if we ask who brought us here ? or where We be, unlucky ? — groom and maid burst forth Into ungoverned laughter and so vanish. Say I not sooth ? Arthur. 'Tis over true. Sir Edward. And draws not The day towards noon, whilst we have been astir Since dawn, nor broke our fasts ? Arthur. Thrice happy thou Whom such a grief can trouble ! Sir Edward. Nay, good brother Thou know'st the proverb says that a full sorrow But trust me Arthur 'tis for thee I grieve : I doubt the lady much. Arthur. Yet this fair seat Sir Edward. Didst ever see that sport of Fletcher's muse The comic scene where Leon tames the pride Of Margarita? THE WEDDING-RING. 6S Arthur. Yes; yes; yes. Sir Edivard. And dost not Remember how a cunning quean, in the absence Of her rich mistress, cozened a gay gallant To wed her ? Arthur. Yes; yes; yes. Sir Edward. And brought him home Even to her lady's dwelling ? Arthur. Yes I tell thee. Beshrew thee, Edward, that hast put in words The very thought that woke within my heart Such torture ! To have wedded poverty, Plain honest houseless poverty, were nothing, Poor though I be, were nothing ! But a cheat, A stale and common cheat ! perchance a lewd — It cannot be, it shall not. Sir Edivard. I would fain Prove an ill guesser. But what ground of faith Hast thou ? Thou hast not seen her face, scarce e'en Her bearing, — so the veil and mantle shrouded G4 DRAMATIC SCENES. A form of towering- height ; thou hast not heard Her voice, for surely, nay she owned as much, Her very tone was feigned. Thou may'st have wedded Old age and ugliness. Arthur. She's young and fair; Of that be sure. Didst thou not see the white Smooth dimpled hand, the taper fingers jewelled Even to the joint, the slender wrist with veins Meandering through its snow ? Never such hand Pertained to aught save one as finely formed As delicately reared. It trembled too, That soft hand trembled and grew cold in mine With fearful modesty, then warmed again With love, quick fluttering love. Aye and athwart Her very wildest speech, although the words Were daring, and the purport rash and strange, Yet was the manner soft and maidenly, As of one born and nurtured in a pure And gentle dignity, that dared the rather, Because in her bold innocence she guessed not - THE WEDDING-RING. 65 The censure she provoked. I'll trust her still, la all her mystery. Sii' Edward. Heaven send her true ! How wilt thou know her ? Arthur. By the very sign We spake of; the fair hand. Sir Edward. The hand ! Why, Arthur, Grant that the hand, so white and violet veined, The small pink palm and taper fingers pass For marks of beauty and of gentle blood ; Yet many a gentle dame hath one as fair As Arthur. Pshaw, man ! Pshaw ! The ring ! The ring ! Thou know'st How unprepared we came for spousal rites. But I by chance wore on my hand the gem, Sir Rowland's legacy, his famous Psyche, And in default of the plain golden round I slid the storied onyx on her finger ; — Hark! G() DRAMATIC SCENES. (One of the doors of the saloon is thrown open.) Sure I heard light footsteps. Hark ! Oh grant It may be she, unmasked, unveiled, disclosed In mind and person. Yet have I a fear Of this strange meeting mingled with my hope. Do thou accost her first. (Arthur retires to the window — Sir Edward remains in the middle of the apartment.) Sir Edward. None enters. Arthur. What! Another mockery ? Sir Edivard. No. I see her now, Beyond the gothic portal, in the hall, A noble lady, speaking with an air Of mild command to her mute menial train. Look ! Thou may'st see her. Look ! Arthur. I dare not. Is't r/ielady? Mine? Speak! Speak! Sir Ediuard. I know not, Arthur, In truth I know not. Yet it cannot be. THE WEDDING-RING. G7 She, whom we saw, could never have concealed That queenly shape, that goddess port. Arthur, Methought She too was graceful. Sir Edward, Why this is a Grace, Or rather a young Juno. Even a goddess Wanting the state imperial would lack somewhat Of her calm majesty. How those dark curls. Falling in their rich clusters evenly Adown those damask cheeks and that slim throat Of ivory, add to the placid grandeur Of her fair face. Yet those large modest eyes Have a quick brightness in them ; a gay dimple Plays round that finely chiselled mouth, — she's scarce So awful as she seems. Arthur. How is she robed ? Like her Sir Edward. No ! she was quaintly garmented In weeds of grey and pink, — a shrouding mantle, A black disfiguring mask, a floating veil : f2 G8 DRAMATIC SCENES. This lady hath ? rich yet simple robe, Of whitest satin, a long ample robe, Purfled with lace and broidered with rare pearls ; Pearls round her fairer neck, and one white rose Mixed with the ringlets whose luxuriant pride The golden bodkin scarce restrains. Arthur. The garb Is bride-like. Sir Edward. It but seems the meet array, The every day attire of that young beauty. Arthur, Her hand ? Sir Edward. Is gloved. Sure I have seen that face ! Was't in a picture ? or a dream ? No ! no ! I've seen her living self. 'Tis the rich heiress, The Lady Stanley. Dost thou not remember The good Lord Stanley, Arthur ? the old friend Of our dear father ? Many a time and oft Hast thou sate on his knee, a rosy boy, Whilst he hath talked to thee of his fair girl, THE WEDDING-RING. 09 His pretty black-eyed maid, and laughed to hear How thou wouldst vow when grown into a man That she — We were at Florence when he died ; But two years since I saw, and scarcely saw, At court the blooming heiress. 'Tis herself ! She comes. Stand not aloof, like village churl From that rare beauty, Arthur. Enter the Lady Stanley. Lady ! Lady. -' Sirs, I crave your pardon, if, as I have heard, Ye have waited long untended. The bright sun Tempted me forth amongst the flowers. Sir Edioard. Thyself A brighter, sweeter flower ! Lady. Beseech ye, Sir, Waiving all compliment to tell at once Your errand hither. I should grieve to fail In courtesy to men of gentle seeming; 70 DRAMATIC SCENES. But being here a maiden and alone, Rich therefore envied, young therefore exposed To evil thoughts and evil tongues, it suits not My state to harbour gallants such as ye Within my house, unless indeed the occasion May justify the visit. Seek ye ought Of me or mine ? Sii' Edward. Fair Mada m, for myself I well may answer, No. My brother yonder Seeks, what full many a man hath vainly sought Of the young Lady Stanley, — Lady. Wherefore pause 1 What seeks the gentleman ? Sir Edivard. A wife, fair Madam ! A wife ! Lady. What mean ye. Sirs ? Arthur. Not to offend Such beauty. Gentle lady, 'tis a tale. So wild, so strange, so marvellously true, I almost shame to tell it. THE WEDDING-RING. 71 Sir Edward. Shall I spare Thy blushes, Arthur ? Lady. Nay, methinks the hero Will prove the best narrator. Sir Edivard (aside). Say'st thou so ? Lady. Pray ye, be seated, Sirs. Now to thy tale. Arthur. Much may befal in few short hours. Last night Whilst sojourning- at Reading, thither called With this my kindest brother to attend A kinsman's bridal, and still lingering on In that gay pleasant town, a thriftless truant From law, dull law, and law's thrice dull abode The silent Temple — Yesternight, returning Merrily to our Inn, a tiny page Slid in my hand a scroll and disappeared Ere we could ask, Whence com'st thou ? 'Twas a cartel. Lady. Alas ! Arthur. A challenge from some unknown foe To meet him, hand to hand, and sword to sword, At peep of day upon the Forbury Hill. 72 DRAMATIC SCENES. Lady. Alas ! Alas ! How wild is man ! Unknown too ! Didst thou attend his summons ? Arthur. Of a sm'ety. Lady. And he — ? Sir Edward. Aye now the marvel comes. Fair Madam, No He was there. Arthur. On that small eminence We met the dawn, and saw the morning mists Rise from the valley of the Thames, disclosing The dewy meadows, and the antique bridge. And Caversham's white hills, — but foe saw none. Lady, Perchance he had repented his rash challenge. Sir Edward. Nay, lady, list the tale. Arthur. Foe saw we none Save a masked damsel pacing silently Beneath the venerable trees, which wave Their verdant plumage o'er the hill's steep brow. Lady. A damsel ! and was she the foe ? TH& WEDDING-RING. 73 Sir Edward. Good sooth She's hke to prove so. Lady. Sir ! — Methinks thy brother Can tell his tale without thine aid. — The Damsel ? Arthur. Paced to and fro, fair Madam. Once or twice Drew near, then back again, as awe or shame Strove with some desperate purpose. Lady, Did she speak ? Arthur, At last with, as it seemed to me, a forced And acted bravery, she drew a rapier Forth from beneath her cloak, avowed herself The challenger of yesternight, and then In few, brief, hurried words gave me the choice To fight her or to wed. Lady. Well, Sir ! Sir Edward. Well, Madam ! In faith thou must accept my story, Lady, Or else get none ; he's silent from mere shame. But canst thou — for all women have a gift 74 DRAMATIC SCENES. Of divination in man's weakness, — canst thou Look in his face, nor read at the first glance His answer ? '^ Benedick the married man" Is stamped on every feature. Ah ! fool ! fool ! Arthur, Edward, beware lest this blunt mood of thine Carry thee past my patience. /Sir Ediuard, Art thou not A fool ? And am not I a triple fool To grieve o'er thy rank folly ? Lady. But thy tale ! He wedded then with this unknown ? Sir Edward. Despite All counsel and all warning. Close at hand, Stood Church and Priest and Clerk in due array For his undoing. They were wedded, Lady, In shorter space than I have known the gallant Waste on the fashion of his doublet. Marry ! This garment is for life. Lady, And she still masked ? THE WEDDING-RING. 75 Sir Edward. Masked, nameless and unknown. At the Church porch Waited a gilded coach, which brought us straight To this fair hall ; and the she Will-o'-the-wisp, Th(? female Jack-o-lantern, having lodged us Safe in her cage, vanished through yonder door. Lady, 'Tis a strange ta^e. Sir Edward. A tale would make the fortune Of a score of ballad-mongers, an 'twere but a thought More credible. But, Madam, canst thou give No help in this wild strait, no clue to trace The run-away ? Hast thou no damsel errante, No jill flirt in thy train were like to play The bride in this adventure ? No pert quean Of a waiting-woman, or wild wanton cousin To cozen our young gallant ? Lady. Out upon thee ! Thou art uncivil. Sir Edward. Of a younger brother He's none so poor ; and \\ being, as thou seest, 76 DRAMATIC SCENES. A bluff, unnurtured bachelor, foredoomed To break my neck in a fox chase, he may reckon On my succession. Many a prim she-cousin, The accustomed garnish of your noble tables, That combs my lady's lap-dog, gathers scandal For her diversion, is a skilful loser At every game, a frontless. flatterer At every season, many such a pest. However gently born, had dared this venture For freedom and a husband. Lady. Once again Thou art uncivil, Sir. Thank heaven my kindred Are of a nobler temper. Sir Ediuard. My suspicions Point to the waiting-damsel. Your poor kinswoman Hath commonly a mincing delicate mien, Compound of fear and pride. Hast thou no wild Intriguess in thy train, whom love of gold — Lady. Thou deemest that it must be love of gold ? Sir Edivard. Madam, I do. THE WEDDING-RING. tl Lady. And thou ? Arthur. I hope not so, And as I hope, believe. Woman is generous, Not mercenary. Sir Edward. Man is vain. I hold that The truer axiom. Lady. What did she resemble, This truant bride ? Sir Edward. A strapping quean ; as tall As the great may-pole on the green ; as awkward As ever danced the may-day round ; as pert — Arthur. Hold ! hold, good brother. She was of a height Noble, sweet lady, as thine own ; as graceful Almost as thy fine form ; and for her speech 'Twas frankness mixed with modesty. I trust to To find a virtuous wife. Lady. A fair one too ? Arthur, So please you, gracious Madam. Not per- chance 78 DRAMATIC SCENES. What might seem fair by thee; — full many a flower Shews Hke a weed beside the rose. Lady. And rich ? Think'st thou to find her rich ? Arthur. For that I care not Howbeit she prove not mercenary. Sir Edward. Tush ! If she be poor, how can she quit herself Of that suspicion ? — Madam, once again, Canst thou end our wild quest ? Lady. How should I ! Masked — And nameless ! — Ye yourselves might meet this bride And pass her by unknown. Sir Edward, We have one token — Arthur. A white and peerless hand. Sir Edivard. A peerless ring ! The hand was coarse and sunburnt, housewifely And toil-stained, — but the ring ! an antique cameo, A Psyche, a quaint butterfly, whose wings Rather of gauze than stone seemed springing up THE WEDDING-RING. 79 III act to fly, a piece of matchless art Found mid the ruins of old Rome, and rated Far above diamonds — To think that gem Should deck some stale cheat's finger ! Lady (taking off her glove). Was the ring Like this upon my hand ? A rthur. My bride ! my wife ! Art thou indeed my wife ? Lady. In very sooth No less. Arthur. Sweet ring, I worship thee. My wife ! My beautiful ! my true ! Lady (to Sir Edward). Now, heretic, Was the masked bride a cheat ? Sir Edward. Fair Lady Stanley, I cry you mercy ! Lady. Nay thou 'scapst not so — Was she a cheat ? Sir Edward. My pretty sister, yes. ^ot when she wore a mask on her bright face. 80 DRAMATIC SCENES. But when she doffed that mask, and strove to play The stranger ! — simpleton ! as if each blush, And downcast look, and sighing smile, and low And faltering accent told not plain as words Her secret. Sister, were that lord of thine Less than a miracle of modesty, He must have known his bride. At the first glance I saw the trick, and instantly resolved To tease the teaser. Lady. 'Twas a strange and bold And venturous hazard ; — but I long had heard All good of Arthur Delmont : as a child From my dear father ; as a youth from friends And kinsmen ; and when I at last had seen, Had loved, and knew not 'Twas unwomanly, Unmeet ; but ye shall see the wife redeem The errors of the maid. Arthur. O may I merit Thy noble trust. ,^ir Edward. It was a generous sin THE WEDDING-RING. 81 And well may find forgiveness. Gentle madam, I have a heavier charge. Here in thy house, And on thy wedding-day — pray Heaven thou use not To starve thy guests ! — I, thy new husband's brother, Am famished. Arthur. Cannibal ! Lady. I cry you mercy ! But dinner Sir Edicard. Breakfast, Lady Stanley ! Breakfast ! I've tasted nought to-day. Lets in to breakfast And talk at ease of this strange chance. Thy hand Fair sister, — aye the ring becomes it well, — The antique wedding ring, an emblem fit Of happiness and love. — To breakfast, quick ! [Exeunt, EMILY. A DRAMATIC SCENE. G 2 CHARACTERS. Loud Glentiiam. Amelia, his daughter. Maurice, Amelia s husband. William, a boy of six years old, the son of Maurice and Amelia, Scene, the inside of a cottage. EMILY. Amelia, at ivork, singing ; Maurice enters during her song, SONG. The sun is careering in glory and might ^Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white ; The bright wave is tossing its foam on high, And the summer breezes go lightly by ; The air and the water dance, glitter and play And why should not I be as merry as they ? The linnet is singing the wild wood through ; The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew ; 8G DRAMATIC SCENES. The butterfly flits round the flowering tree ; And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee. All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay — And why should not I be as merry as they * ? Amelia. Ah ! art thou there ? I thought I was alone. Hast thou been long returned ? Maurice. Even now. Amelia. I'm glad ; For I would feel thy presence, — as I used When I, a conscious girl, if thou didst come Behind my chair, knew thee without the aid Of eye or ear. A wife's love is as strong, Her sense should be as quick. Maurice. But maiden love Is mixed with shame, and doubt, and consciousness, * This song has been very beautifully set to music by my young friend, Mr. Charles Packer, one of the most distinguished and pro- mising pupils of the Royal Musical Academy. EMILY. 0/ Which have a thousand eyes, a thousand ears. Ameha, thou art pale. Nay, if thou smilest Thou wilt be pale no longer : thy rich smile Is fitly wedded to a varying blush, That flutters tremulously in thy fair cheek, Like shivering wings of new-caught butterflies. Ah, there it is ! Amelia. Flatterer! Maurice. But thou wast pale Stooping so long o'er, that embroidery, That irksome toil. Go forth into the air. Amelia. Not yet ; there still is light enough to work ; I have one flower to finish. Then I'll fly To the sweet joys of busy idleness, To our sweet garden. I am wanted there — So William says ; the freshening showers to-day Have scattered my carnations ; I must raise Their clear and odorous beauties from the dark Defiling earth. Maurice. That task is done. 88 DRAMATIC SCENES. Amelia. By thee ? After thy hard day's toil? Oh what a fond And foohsh lover-husband I have got ! Art thou not weary ? Maurice. Only just enough To feel the comfort, sweetest, of repose ; Of such repose as this, here at thy feet Extended, and my head against thy knee. Amelia. Even as that sweet and melancholy prince, Hamlet the Dane, lay at Ophelia's feet His lady-love. Wast thou not thinking so ? Ma2irice. I was. Amelia. And I was likening thee to one — Dost thou remember — 'tis the prettiest moment Of that most marvellous and truest book — When her so dear Sir Charles at Harriet's feet Lay turning up his bright face smilingly *. Dost thou remember ? Maurice. Banterer ! Where is William ? * Sir Charles Grandison, vol. vi. EMILY. SO Amelia. That is a secret. Do not question me, Or I shall tell. He will be shortly back. (Sings.) The linnet is singing the wild wood through, The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew ; The butterfly flits round the flowering tree ; And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee. All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay — And why should not I be as merry as they ? And why should not I be as merry as they ? Maurice. How much thou lov'st that song ! Amelia. He loves it so, Our William : if far off within the wood He do but catch one clear and ringing note Of that wild cheerful strain, he scuds along With his small pretty feet, like the young brood Of the hen-partridge to her evening call. Maurice. Well but where is he 1 00 DRAMATIC SCENES. Amelia. Guess. Maurice. Nay, tell me, love. Amelia, To-day at noon, returning from the farm, Where on some trifling errand I had sent him, He left the path in chase of that bright insect The burnished dragon-fly, with net-work wings So beautiful. His shining guide flew on. Tracing the channel of the rippling spring Up to its very source. There William lost him : But looking round upon that fairy scene Of tangled wood and babbling waters clear. He found a fairy carpet ; strawberries Spread all about, in a rich tapestry Of leaves and blushing fruit : and he is gone, With his own basket that his father made him. His own dear father, to bring home his prize To that dear father. Maurice, Prythee, love, say on ; This is a tale which I could listen to The livelong day. EMILY. 91 Amelia. And will it not be sweet To see that lovely boy, blushing all over, His fair brow reddening-, and his smiling eyes Filling with tears, his scarlet lips far ruddier Than the red berries, stammering and forgetting The little pretty speech that he hath conned, But speaking in warm kisses ? Will it not Be sweet to see my precious William give The very first thing he can call his own To him who gives him all ? My dearest husband, Betray me not. Pretend aii ignorance ; And w^onder why that cream and bread stand there, And why that china bowl. Thy precious boy ! Maurice, Thy precious boy ! Amelia that child's heart Is like thee as his face. Amelia, Liker to thee Are both — our blessing ! What a world of love Dwells in that little heart ! Maurice. Too much ! too much ! 02 DRAMATIC SCENES. He is too sensitive. I would he had An airy playmate full of mirth and jests. Amelia. Nature's his playmate ; leaves and flowers and birds And the young innocent lambs are his companions ; He needs no other. In his solitude He is as happy as the glittering beetle That lives in the white rose. My precious boy! Maurice. What are these ? Tears ! My own Amelia, Weep'st thou for happiness ? What means this rain That falls without a cloud ? Fy ! I must chide thee. Amelia. Yes; th ou art right. Useless, not cause- less, tears! They will have way. Forgive me, dearest husband ! This is our wedding-eve. Seven years ago I stole, a guilty wanderer, from my home, — My old paternal home ! — and with the gush Of motherly love, another thought rushed in — My father ! EMILY. 93 Maurice. My Amelia ! A?nelia. Seven years Have past since last I saw him ; — and that last ! The pangs of death were in my heart, when I Approached to say, Goodnight ! He had been harsh All day ; had pressed Sir Robert's odious love. Had taunted at thy poverty — my Maurice ! But suddenly, when I all vainly tried To falter out, Goodnight, in his old tone Of fond familiar love, and with the name Which from his lips seemed a caress, he said, God bless you, Emily ! That blessing pierced My very soul. Oft in the dead of night I seem to hear it. Would he bless me now ? Oh no ! no ! no ! Maurice. My own beloved wife Think not too deeply. There will come a time Amelia. Oh Maurice ! all the grandeur that she left, The splendid vanities, ne'er cost thy wife A sigh, contented in her poverty, 94 DRAMATIC SCENES. Happy in virtuous love. But that kind voice, That tender blessing, that accustomed name Of fondness ! Oh ! they haunt my very dreams; They crowd upon my waking thoughts ; then most When some sweet kindness of my lovely boy, Some sign of glorious promise, tells my heart How little I deserve Maurice, My Emily ! Amelia. No, not from thee, not even from thee that name. 'Tis sacred to those dear and honoured lips That ne'er will breathe it more. I am ungrateful Thus to repine, whilst thou and our dear boy Where can he now be loitering ? These dark clouds Portend a storm. Maurice, Already the large drops Come pattering on the vine leaves. I will seek Enter William. Aynelia, He's here. My William, wherefore didst thou stay EMILY. 95 So long ? and vvhere's the basket ? William. Kiss me first. Amelia. Now, where's the basket? Williayn. I had filled it half, When a strange gentleman came through the wood And sat down by me. Amelia. Did he eat the strawberries ? William. Dear mother, no. He talked to me, and then I could not gather them. Amelia. What said he, dearest ? William. He asked my name and your's, and where I dwelt, And kissed me. Amelia. And what else ? William. Called me dear boy. Said that a storm was coming on, and asked If I would go with him, Maurice. Ha ! what said'st thou To that, my William ? 90 DRAMATIC SCENES. William, No. But then I prayed him To come with me to my dear home. Look there I Do you not see that tall man in the porch, His head against the woodbine ? That is he. Amelia. Dear Maurice, bring him in. [Exit Maurice. William, I am so sorry That it is grown so dark, you will not see What a sweet face he has. Only he's older, I think he's like you, mother ; and he kissed me As you do now, and cried. Amelia. Oh can it be — Re-enter Maurice with Lord Glentiiam. Lord Glen. If I intrude — Amelia. That voice ! Oh father ! father ! Pardon ! Oh pardon ! Lord Glen, Madam! — Amelia. I'm your daughter — Call me so, father ! for these seven long years EMILY. 97 I have not seen your face. Disown me not ! Call me your daughter ! Once from your dear lips Let me hear that dear sound ! Call me your Emily, And bless my dear, dear child ! For such a blessing Fd be content to die. William, kneel here; Hold up your innocent hands. Lord Glen. Rise, Madeim ; rise. A7nelia. Oh call me once your daughter, only once, To still my longing heart ! My William, pray For your poor mother. William. Oh forgive us, Sir, Pray, pray forgive us ! Lord Glen. Madam, I have sought A half hour's shelter here from this wild storm ; And, as your guest, I pray you to forbear These harrowing words. I am but lately risen From a sick bed. Maurice, My wife, compose thyself, Retire awhile. \^Exit Amelia. Please you to sit my lord. II 98 DRAMATIC SCENES. Lord Gle7i. I thank you, Sir.— You have a pleasant cottage, Prettily garlanded with rose and woodbine And the more useful vine. Has it been long Your home ? Maurice. Five years. Lord Gle7i, You have left the army ? Maurice, Yes. There was no chance of war ; nor could I drag My sweet Amelia through the homeless wanderings Of a poor soldier's life. This is a nest, However lowly, warm and full of love As her own heart. Here we have been most happy. Re-enter Amelia, ivith a light and a basket. Maurice (meeting her). Thou tremblest still. Amelia. I could not stay away. It is such joyful pain to look upon him ; To hear his voice ; — I could not stay away, William, there is thy basket. Offer it. ejmilv. 99 Lord Glen. No, my dear boy. Amelia. Now blessings on his head For that kind word ! Lord Glen. Surely she was not always So thin and pale I — Your husband says, Amelia, That you are happy. Amelia, I have only known One sorrow. Lord Glen. Ye are poor. Amelia. Not that ! not that ! Lord Glen. You have implored my blessing on your son ; — I bless him. Amelia. On my knees I offer up My thanks to Heaven, and thee. A double blessing Was that, my father ! on my heart it fell Like balm. Lord Glen. I will do more. Give me that boy, And he shall be my heir. Give me that boy. Amelia, My boy ! Give up my boy ! ji 2 100 DRAMATIC SCENES. Lord Glen. Why he must be A burthen. Ye are poor. Amelia. A burthen ! WiUiam ! My own dear Wilham ! Lord Glen. Miserably poor Ye are. Deny it not. Maurice. We earn our bread By honest labour. Amelia. And to work for him Is such a joy ! My William, tremble not ! Weep not, my William ! Thou shalt stay with me Here on my lap, here on my bosom, William ! Lord Glen. Why thou may'st have another child, and then — Amelia. Oh never one like this — this dearest child Of love and sorrow ! Till this boy was born Wretchedly poor we were ; sick, heartsick, desolate. Desponding ; but he came, a living sunbeam ! And light and warmth seemed darting through my breast, EMILY. 101 With his first smile. Then hope and comfort came, And poverty, with her inventive arts, A friend, and love, pure, firm enduring love ; And ever since we have been poor and happy : Poor ! no, we have been rich ! my precious child ! Lord Glen. Bethink thee for that child, Amelia, What fortunes thou dost spurn. His father's love Perhaps is wiser. Amelia. Maurice, say. Maurice. My lord, 'Tis every whit as fond. You have my thanks. But in a lowly station he may be Virtuous and happy. William. Mother, let me stay And I will be so good. Amelia. My darling, yes ; Thou shalt not leave me, not for the wide world. Lord Glen, Thou need'st not clasp him so against thy bosom ; I am no ruffian, from a mother's breast 102 DRAMATIC SCENES. To pluck her child. — Amelia, as his arms Wind round thy neck, so thou a thousand times Hast clung to mine ; as on his snowy brow Thy lips are sealed, so mine a thousand times Have prest thy face ; with such a love, Amelia, As thou dost feel for him. Amelia. Oh father ! father! Lord Glen. Thou wert a motherless babe, and I to thee Supplied both parents. Many a night have I Hung over thy sick bed, and prayed for thee As thou dost pray for him. And thou, Am.elia, Didst love me then. Amelia. Did love ! Oh never, never Can such love pass away ! 'Tis twined with hfe. Lord Glen. Then after eighteen years of tender care, Fond hopes, and fonder fears, didst thou not fly From me, thy father, with a light gay youth, A love of yesterday ? Didst thou not leave me To die of a ])roken heart ? Amelia, speak ! Didst thou not ? EMILY. 103 Amelia. Father ! this is worse thi\n death. Lord Glen. Didst thou not ? Speak. Amelia. I did. Alas! I did. Lord Glen. Oh miserably have my days crept on Since thou didst leave me ! Very desolate Is that proud splendid home ! No cheerful meals ; No evening music ; and no morning rides Of charity or pleasure. Thy trim walks Are overgrown ; and the gay pretty room. Which thou didst love so well, is vacant now ; Vacant and desolate as my sick heart. Amelia, when thou saw'st me last, my hair Was brown as thine. Look on it now, Amelia, Maurice. My lord, this grief will kill her. See, she writhes Upon the floor. Lord Glen. And must I go still desolate ? I might have found a comfort, had I had Something to live for still, something to love; — If she who robbed me of my child had given lOi DRAMATIC SCENES. Her child instead ; — but all is over now ! She would not trust her father. All ! Farewell ! Amelia {starting up). Take him, whilst I have life to bid thee ! Take him ! Nay, cling not to me, boy ! Take, take him. — Maurice ? William. I will not leave you, mother. Amelia. Hush ! hush ! hush ! My heart is breaking, William. — Maurice, speak ! Maurice. Dearest and best, be it as thou hast willed. I owed thee a great sacrifice, Ameha; — And I shall still have thee ! Lord Glen. Thou giv'st him then ? Maurice. I do. But for his own sake, good my lord, Let not my son be taught to scorn the father ' He never will forget ; and let his mother See him sometimes, or she will surely die. Amelia. I shall die now. My WilUam ! Lord Glen. Emily! Amelia. Ha ! Lord Glen. My sweet Emily ! EMILY. 105 Amelia. We are forgiven ! Maurice, we are forgiven ! Lord Glen, My own dear child, My children, bless ye all ! Forgive this trial ;— We'll never part again. THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER. A DRAMATIC SCENE. CHARACTERS. colantonio del flore. Anc4Elo Solario. Laura. LiSABETTA. Scene — An Artist's Paintmg-Room — Floicer-pieces finished and unfiyiished on the walls and the easel — a large picture covered with a veil in the front. THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER. CoLANTONio, and Lisabetta. Colantonio. Good Lisabetta, know'st thou of my daughter, Madonna Laura ? I have sought in vain Her chamber and her garden bower. Lisabetta. She's still At vespers, Signor. Colantonio. Aye, I might have guess'd — My fair and pensive nun ! She flies the Hght And vain companionship of this gay city ; Shunning ahke woman her gossip, man Her vassal ; coy, demure, retiring, shy, Living in Naples here as if the world 110 DRAMATIC SCENES. Were all made up of the still garden where My flowers grow, and this cool quiet room Where my old hand, not yet deprived by age Of its accustom'd skill, lends them new life On canvas. But to seek the lonely church, Where, closely veil'd, at vesper-hour she steals To muse and pray, my gentle daughter ne'er Forsakes her home. Lisabetta. In truth, she is too sad. But, good padrone, 'tis thy fault. A maid So fair, so rich, should have been match'd long since With some gay cavalier. That vow of thine, That save a painter, a great painter, none Should wed Madonna Laura, may perchance Keep the Madonna Laura long a maid. For of rare artists some are old, and some Are wedded, and some love their single state More than a fair young bride. 'Tis certain none Hath wooed her to thy heart's content ; — and she — Alas, poor child ! — likes none of them. THE painter's DAUGHTER. Ill Colantonio, Sage nurse, Dost love a secret ? Lisabetta. Aye. Colantonio. A secret too That thou may'st tell ? Lisabetta. Canst thou doubt that? Colantonio. Then listen ! Haste to the jewellers and merchants, furnish A wardrobe for a princess; — to the cooks, Confectioners, and spice-men ; let us have A banquet fit for kings ; — send round the city To bid my friends and kindred ; — for the morrow Is Laura's bridal. Lisabetta. And her husband ? Colantonio. One Whose name hath darted into fame, as the star Of evening springs to light. Lisabetta. Hast seen him ? Colantonio. No. But I have seen the master-work by which 112 DRAMATIC SCENES. He wooes her ; — yonder curtain 'd — hark ! She comes. No word of this to her. Enter Laura. My Laura ! Laura. Take My veil, good nurse ; the heat is stifling. [Exit Lisahetta. Father, What would'st thou of me 1 JuUo says, that twice Thou call'dst for Laura. Colantonio. I would say to thee— Sit here by me, thy hand in mine : — this hand So soft and warm, yet trembling as it knew Its destiny, is claim'd, my Laura. Laura. Claim'd ? Colantonio. Aye, by a lover, dearest. Laura. Lover ! Colantonio. Say A husband, sweet one, if it please thee better. THE painter's DAUGHTER. 113 Laura. By whom ? '^''' Colantonio. A painter who hath come from Rome To seek thy love. Laura. Love I Do 1 know him? Colantonio. No. Laura. Doth he know me 'I Colantonio. He says that he has seen My beauteous daughter — here's his letter ! — Surely I think he loves thee. Laura. Loves me ! If he did, I love not him ! And wherefore must I wed ? Art weary of me, father ? Colantonio. Sweet one, no ! Laura. Am I a burthen in thy house ? Colantonio. The joy! The pride ! the sunshine ! Laura. Prythee, let me bide In this dear home, and wear away my days In ministering to thee. I have been No thriftless housewife. Trust me, thou would'st miss 114 DRAMATIC SCENES, Thine own poor Laura, when some menial hand Shook up thy pillow, when some menial tread Broke rudely on thy slumbers — thou would'st miss The soft light touch of love, — and at thy meals. Thy solitary meals, and the sweet hour Of morning meeting, and the tenderer time That blends a blessing with good-night ! — Oh father, Why would'st thou send me from thee ? Colantonio. Didst thou think I could part from thee ? Go to ! we are rich In worldly pelf; thy spouse shall dwell with us Here in the home thou lov'st. Thou shalt not quit Thy pretty garden bower, thy myrtle shade For winter, or the summer walk, where grapes Hang through the trellis arch amidst their rich And clustering leaves. Thou shalt dwell here, as now, In thine own pleasant home, thine old fond father Blessing thee still at morn and eve. But wed, Wed, my own Laura ! Thou art mine only child, The child of mine old age, and I would fain THE painter's DAUGHTER. 115 Live thy fair childhood o'er again, would see Thy beauty multiplied, would taste that fondest And tenderest ecstasy, a grandsire's love. Besides, thou know'st my vow. Kings have ere now, If chronicles sav sooth, ofFer'd their heirs The prize of valor, of brute strength ; I held thee At higher price, my Laura, when I swore None but a victor in the noble field Of Art should win thee, save a painter none Should call thee wife. Laura, Alas ! Colantonio, And I have quell'd The father's natural longing to extend His race ; and, marvelling at thy coldness, joy'd To see thee turn from the proud cavaliers Of the gay city, with a gentle scorn That waved away their wooings as the hand Fans off the flies in summer time, — have joy'd To see my virgin flower hang in the shade From year to year, fresh, dewy, beautiful, 1 2 IIG DRAMATIC SCENES. As when it burst the bud — Laura. Oh flatterer, fie ! Colantonio. Nestling within its bower, so that no soil Of the rude world came near it, scarcely kiss'd By the hot breath of the sun. But now, my Laura, (uncovering the picture,) Look on that picture ; needs no practised eye To scan its beauty. Art sits triumphing Like nature there, with daylight, life and youth. Almost the vital breath hangs on those lips Of parted coral ; almost the warm blood Glows in the modest cheek, and tender thought Dwells in the fair broad forehead. 'Tis a young Madonna. Look at the soft downcast eye, The head bent downward ! Look ! Hast thou ne'er seen Such features ? Laura (to herself), Tis myself! Younger and fairer — But such as love— And so my braided locks I wore disparted ; so the silken hood, THE painter's DAUGHTER. 117 Intensely blue, lay on my hair. Fool ! Fool ! The very puppet of a dream ! He was A soldier, a brave soldier! Colantonio. He who painted That picture loves thee, claims thee, the rich guerdon Of excellence in art ; with noble pride He wooes as Theseus erst Hippolyta, Conquering his lovelier bride. Laura. Hast seen him ? Colantonio. No. Laura. His name 1 Colantonio, Zingaro. Laura (to herself). Fool ! fool ! fool ! to think Because a dream, or some strange trick of the sense, Of memory, or fancy, some sweet sound Passing along the air — I had been sitting Within the bower he loved, entranced in thought, Fond dreamy thought of him, through the hot noon. And then I heard the nightingale afar Or distant viol from the bay, and straight 118 DRAMATIC SCENES. Deem'd 'twas his fav'rite air — Fool ! fool ! His hand Wielded the sword and shield, and deftly rein'd The maneged steed ! Little he reck'd of brush Or palette ; — then the time ! — long, long ere now. Hath he forgotten his poor Laura! Man Loves on till hope be dead, then love dies too ; *Tis only woman lays her silly heart In hope's cold urn, and in that fun'ral nest Broods o'er her love. Colanto7iio. Well ! hast thou gazed thy fill ? It likes me, dearest, that with quivering lips, And mutter'd words, and cheeks with passion pale, Thou look'st on yonder picture. It hath thaw'd Thy maiden coldness. I will send forthwith To summon this Zingaro. Laura. Father, stay! Listen ! I am about to tell a tale Too long unutter'd. Listen ! Thou hast talk'd Of maiden coldness. I have loved, I love With all the ardour that our burning sun THE painter's DAUGHTER. 119 Strikes into woman's heart. Nay, start not, father, Nor put me from thee thus ! I'll tell thee all. Thou hast no cause to blush for me ; I loved Deeply and fervidly, but chastely, father, As ever priestess of old Rome adored Her god Apollo. Colantonio. Whom ? Laura. Dost thou remember Young Angelo Solario, the son Of our rich neighbour ? Colantonio. He ! Why he hath left Naples these ten years ! Laura. And for ten long years Dwelt in my heart. Colantonio. Aye, I remember now. The Count Solario once proposed to join Our children's hands. Laura. Oh good old man ! Colantonio. It wrought in me Some marvel that he would abase his son 120 DRAMATIC SCENES. To wed a painter's daughter. Laura. Kind old man ! ColantoJiio. But I had vow'd thee ev'n before thy birth To my great art ; its votary, if a boy ; If a weak girl, its guerdon. Thus I said To Count Solario : " Pluck from thy hot son The sword he loves o'erwell, and bid him wield The peaceful pencil ; then, if Heaven have given The painter's eye, the painter's hand, and (rarest And needfullest of all) that inward beam, Genius, of painter and of poet bright And glorious heritage ! — Then when, matured By time and patient toil, he shall achieve Some master-work of art, then bid him come, And he shall woo my daughter." The old man Laugh'd ; and the gallant — 1 bethink me now That Angelo was there — curl'd his proud lip, And fix'd his flashing eye, and tightlier grasp'd His jewell'd sword. THE painter's daughter. 1^1 Laura. Spake he ? Colantonio, No word. He went Forth to the wars that very week ; and then The father died ; — Why, Laura mine, thou wast A girl when he departed ! Laura. Old enough To love. The day he said, Farewell, I wrote Sixteen in my short book of life. Ten years This very day ! Oh old enough for love ! Colantonio. For fancy, flickering fancy ; such as girls Waste on a momentary toy, a flower, A linnet, an embroider'd robe. Laura. For love. Woman's intense and passionate love. I've seen Ten times the changing seasons wax and fade, Have seen the spring-tide of my youth pass by In absence, hopelessness, despair, and still The thought within my heart, the voice that lived Within mine ear, the image in mine eye, 122 DRAMATIC SCENES. Was Angelo. His loved idea hath been My sole reality. All waking things, The common pageants of this work-day world, Pass'd by me as a dream, confused, unmark'd, Forgotten ! Then I lived, then my soul woke, When in the myrtle arbour, where erewhile We spent our childish hours, I could sit Alone up-coiled into myself, and muse On him, till memory would conjure back The very image of his sparkling youth Before mine eyes ; the light elastic form Whose every motion was a bound, whose walk A gay curvet as springy as the pace Of his own Barbary steed ; the face as dark Even as a Moor's, but brightened by a smile Vivid as noonday sunshine, eyes that flash 'd An insupportable hght, and close black curls Beneath the plumed cap, — I saw them all ! And in mine ear the very sound would dwell Of that farewell which was a vow, that voice THE painter's daughter. 123 Which in a tone of prophecy would cry, " Laura, I'll wed thee yet!" Colantonio, This is a phrensy. Laura, Oh, father, it is love ! Colantonio. Laura, my sweet one, The fault is mine. Thou hast been left o'erlong Lonely and uncompanion'd, till vain dreams, And thoughts vainer than dreams, have overborne Thy better reason. Ten years, and thou hear'st Nothing of Angelo ! or he is dead, Or thou forgotten. Laura, Father, listen, father ! Last night — I should have said there was an air, A rich, yet simple strain, whose burthen well Became our summer seas, joyous or sad As the deft singer in his varying mood Hurried or stayed the measure, always sweet, Most exquisitely sweet ! That air from boyhood Angelo loved ; would carol as he walk'd Along the streets ; sing whilst his plashing oar 1^1 DRAMATIC SCENES. Kept time ; and ever and anon a snatch Of the famiUar strain might travellers Hst, Crossing the sharp sound of his horse's tread. That strain by constant and pecuhar use Became his very own, belonged to him As her sweet music to the nightingale. Unmatched of any. From a little child I knew those notes ; for so would Angelo Summon his fairy playmate ; — 'twas the lure Of gamesome innocence, the call of love, For ten years past unsounded, — till last night Ling'ring in pensive musings in my bower, I heard once more the strain. Colantonio, A dream ! a dream ! Laura. Sure as I live, the sound was there. 'Twas not The vision which at pleasure fancy calls Or chases. I arose, I walked ; yet still That air in its old sweetness, each division Musical as a mermaid's song, was borne THE PAINTERS DAUGHTER. \25 Upon the breeze, though faintlier heard and fainther As I receded. It was Angelo, Or of those noises of the air which oft AVait round the living, when the parting soul Of the beloved-one seeks its Heaven, — the knell Which the Death-angel rings. (Music without.) Hark ! Colantonio, I hear nothing. (Music ivithout and nearer.) Aye now ! Laura. My Angelo, alive or dead, I will be thine, thine only ! (Music again without.) Hark again ! Colantonio. I shame to have hearkened to this tale. My Laura, I tell thee thou art vow'd and dedicate To genius, to Zingaro. 12G DRAMATIC SCENES. (Ancjelo Solario enters behind, unperceived by either speaker.) Laura. I will never Wed other man than Angelo. Thy vow Is sacrilegious, father, and unblest As his, the judge of Israel, his, the king Of men, whose sacrificial knife drank deep The innocent blood in Aulis. I have wept When I have heard the tale of Jephthah's daughter Or poor Iphigenia : yet their lot, Measured with mine was blessedness. They died. But I should linger out a martyrdom Of loveless life. There is no law of earth Or Heaven that vests thee with a power to barter Thy living child for yon vain shadow. Give Thy ducats to Zingaro. Stay me not ! I'll to a nunnery — hold me not! Unless To list my vow that nor by force or fraud Will I e'er wed — THE painter's daughter. 1^7 A ngelo (advancing). Oh fairest constancy ! Oh miracle of woman's faith ; Laura. 'Tis he ! His very self! This hand that presses mine, These eyes that gaze on me Just so he looked, Just so he spake. — Oh surely I have dreamt This ten years' absence ! It was yesterday We parted ! Angela, Loveliest, most beloved, I come To claim thee. Colant07iio, She is promised. Angela. To Zingaro ? Colantonio. Even so, good signor. Laura. Never ! Never ! Angela. Sweetest, Make no rash vows. If thou would crown my love, Thou'lt wed Zingaro. Nay, snatch not away This struggling hand ! — the hand Zingaro won For Angelo ! Hast thou not read me yet ? Must I needs tell thee 128 DRAMATIC SCENES. Laura. Oh no, no, no, no"! Thou art he ! Ye are one ! And thou for me hast laid Thy state aside, hast flung away thy sword, Hast toil'd in silence and in secresy, For me ! for me ! Father, speak to him ! Father, Speak to him ! Colantonio. Calm thee, mine own Laura. Signor, Thou hear'st her : says she sooth ? Art thou indeed The famed Zingaro ? Is this master-work Of painting thine ? Angela. Oh now I see that work. That master-work of nature, whose rare beauty I strove to copy, faint and feeble seems My portraiture ! Such as it is, the piece Is mine. Colantonio. My son ! Angelo. My father I Colantonio. Wherefore change Thy name ? and why not say — Angelo. Sir! When I left THE painter's daughter. 129 Thy presence, even when thou bad'st me wield The peaceful pencil, and by toil and time Climb the high steep of art, or ere I wooed Thy daughter, even as thou spak'st, my soul Was fix'd to its great purpose, and almost Had I flung at thy feet my sword, and vow'd To win the prize or die ; yet fear and shame Master'd my speech, and I went forth resolved And silent. Colantonio. Whither didst thou go ? Angela, To Rome, The shrine of art, on love's own pilgrimage. My friends and kinsmen deem'd me at the camp ; None save my father guess'd — and, when he died, I was of all forgotten. Laura. Not of all. Angela. Of all, save one the faithfuUest, Mean- time, A nameless student, day and night I toil'd K 130 DRAMATIC SCENES. For that dear faithful one. From my swart skin My laughing comrades called me oft in jest Zingaro *, till at last the name of scorn Was crown'd by fame. Oh very dear to me The name that won thee, Laura ! Colantonio. Will she wed Zingaro ? Laura. Will I ! — Father, was my love A frenzy ? Colantonio. Sweet one, love and constancy Have wrought this blessedness. Receive thy bride, Thy twice-won bride, Zingaro ! * Gipsy. — The groundwork of the foregoing scene will be found in Mr. Mills' very interesting " Travels of Theodore Ducas." I have only taken the liberty to change the name of my hero from Antonio to Angelo. A similar anecdote has been related of several painters, especially of Quintin Matsys, the celebrated blacksmith of Antwerp — though I have for obvious reasons preferred the Italian version of the story. What could one do with a blacksmith and a Dutchman, and a man who painted misers counting their gold ? THE painter's DAUGHTER. 131 Laura. He but gives My hand. My heart is Angelo's. Angela. Mine! Mine! Both mine ! K 2 FAIR ROSAMOND. A DRAMATIC SCENE. The following scene is chiefly taken from the popular ballad of the same name in Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Some anachronisms will, I fear, be found, besides those contained in the beautiful legend which forms the groundv;ork of my story ; but at an age so remote, and with a subject, to say the best of it, apo- cryphal, a strict adherence to the old tradition will hardly be de- manded. CHARACTERS. Henry the Second, King of England^ Queen Eleanor. Fair Rosamond, Constance, } f Rosamond's women, Mabel, 3 ArcherSy ^c. attending on the King and Queen, Scene^ An Apartment in Rosamond's bower at Wood- stock, FAIR ROSAMOND. Enter Constance meeting Mabel. Coyistance. Alone, good Mabel ? Hath not oiiv fair lady Won homeward from the chase ? Mabel. But now I left her In the great hall, prattling right merrily To Pierce the white-haired forester, the old And merry forester. Hark ! thou may'st hear Her sweet wild laughter now, echoing along The gallery. Hark ! hark ! How like a gay And reckless child ! and how the old man's voice Comes chuckling in between ! Constance. What makes he here ? 136 DRAMATIC SCENES. Mabel. He came to warn our lady to retire Within her secret bower, and triply guard The outer gate. He dreads a quick surprise From powerful foes. Constance. And Reginald Fitz-Urse, The valiant captain of the guard, hath gone This very morn to Warwick, to attend His dying father. None remain save raw And ignorant striplings. What hath scared old Pierce ? Mabel, A clerk of Oxford passing through the chase Brought tidings that last night a royal train Reposed within the city, he believed The Queen herself — but Lady Rosamond Had yester-eve fond missives from the king Whom she expects at noon ; and makes a mock Of Pierce's warning, mimicking the dull And purblind scholar who mistook her bright And peerless Henry for the stiff and gaunt And withered Eleanor; dancing for glee. Clapping her hands and laughing at each turn FAIR ROSAMOND. 137 Of her quick fancy, gentle as young lambs Midst all her gambols, and more beautiful Than blossoms of the field. 'Tis a light heart. Constance. Think'st thou so ? Mabel. Surely. Constance. Hast thou dwelt with her A two months' space, and deem'st her light of heart? Mabel, Full surely. Grant that sometimes she will weep The long day through, and watch the tedious night, Yet soon the veriest trifle will relume Her smile of joy. Constance. Ay, for an hour, and then To tears again. She bore a light heart, Mabel, When I first knew her in her father's halls. Oh what a peerless flower the spoiler's hand Marred in the cropping ! — poor, poor Rosamond ! Mabel. Sure she is happy when king Henry comes. Constance. Ay then, for with idolatry so blind She loves her royal lover, that each look, 138 DRAMATIC SCENES. Each thought, each feehng is absorbed in that Fond worship. In those brief and stolen hours Fair Rosamond is happy ; but they leave Remorse behind. She comes. Enter Rosamond. Rosarnoyid. How now, good maidens ! Ye are sad to-day. Constance, hath Mabel told thee Of Pierce and that same learned clerk ? I've laughed Till I'm a-weary, girl. Constance. Yet, gracious lady, Were it not wiser to withdraw awhile Within the secret bovver ? Rosamond, Dost thou believe That legend, Constance ? Hath thy woman's fear So mastered thee that thou too dost mistake King Henry's plumed helm for the starched coif Of haughty Eleanor ? And yet I thank thee. Thy fears spring from thy love. Go take my purse To good old Pierce ; the faithful wretch is full Of honest care. \^Exit Constance. FAIR ROSAMOND. ISO Now reach my broidery, Mabel, The flowered scarf. Last night I dreamt of flowers, What may that dream denote ? Mabel. Good, surely madam. Rosamond. Chiefly of roses. Mabel. Certes, lady, good, Rosamond. 'Twas looking on the scarf reminded me Of that gay dream. Methought I was a spirit In a bright world made up of sun and flowers, A lonely spirit, and my task to deck A vast triumphal temple, such as pilgrims Tell of in far-off countries, to entwine Rich garlands round its thousand fluted shafts Of whitest alabaster. There I sate Framing my wreaths profuse of various flowers — For every flower was there of every hue And of all seasons ; — there I sat and sang. Bathed in the fragrance of light sunny showers, And plied my joyful task ; or gladlier rose And flitted on light pinions, round and round 140 DRAMATIC SCENES. The snowy columns twisting single wreaths, Or richly interlacing, or from shaft To shaft suspending the superb festoon Like an inverted rainbow. There they hung Unwithered, fresh, as on the parent bough, Nourished by the sweet air ; and there I plied My task unwearied — till the robin's song Rang through the casement and awakened me : Now what may that dream bode ? MaheL Good, good, dear lady. Rosamond. Say'st thou so, wench ? Tis a fair augury. Where hast thou laid the threads of gold ? Will that Be like the Pensee ? — So the Normans call The pretty blossom, but our English maids Give it a dearer name, the sweet heart's-ease ; This scarf is for king Henry. I must not Forget the heart's-ease. — Constance loiters long. Mahel Shall I go call her? Rosamond. No. When she returns FAIR ROSAMOND. 141 We'll ask her for some merry roundelay, Some pleasant ditty of Provence ; for Constance, Staid and demure although she be, hath store Of mirthful minstrelsy. I would beguile The hour till Henry comes, — my princely Henry, My king, my love. Mabel. He comes to-day ? Rosamond. To-day, At noon to-day — Oh how I love to speak Over and over the glad words which tell His coming, as if that blest time were made By every repetition doubly sure. He comes at noon — when yonder shadow cast From the rich oriel window, even lies Upon the floor, thou'lt hear the tramp of steeds And clang of trumpets and the rapid tread Of his light foot. At noon — not sooner, wench ; For he is punctual as beseemeth one Whose will is clock to many, nor foreruns 142 DRAMATIC SCENES. The hour of meeting though 'tis me he meets. At noon, when yonder sluggish shadow — surely 'Tis fixed in one eternal slope ! —-lies straight Upon the floor. How blest shall I be then ! — Till then how slow and weary is the pause, How long the last sad melancholy hour Of expectation ! Mabel. 'Twill soon pass, dear lady ! Rosamond. Pass ! Look how yonder shadow sleeps ! 'T had past More lightly in the woods midst falling leaves And short quick flight of birds — But then I might Have missed him, and so lost sweet precious minutes Of his brief stay, or have encountered him Midst the keen gazes of his knightly train. And so have lost the o'erflowing gush of joy At our first meeting. In this oriel chamber He looks to find me still ; I'll wait him here. The shadow stirs not. FAIR ItOSAMOND. 143 Mabel. If thou woiild'st but cease To watch it, gentle 'ady, or could'st think On any theme save one — Rosajnond. Could think on aught Save him ! — Oh thou hast never loved ! — Could speak Of aught save Henry, when each moment brings him Nearer to these fond arms. If thou had'st loved Thou would'st have known that I must talk of him And of him only. Mabel. Not of thy fair children ? Rosamoyid. Not even of them. Yet would that they were here My pretty gentle Geoffrey, and that boy Elder and bolder, my stout William, — he. Who at some six years old already draws His father's sword, already flashes forth His father's spirit — my brave knightly boy ! Oh would that they were here, to shed fresh charms On this blest meeting ! to make wholly perfect Their mother's happiness ! 144 DRAMATIC SCENES. Mabel. They dwell apart By the King's orders ? Rosamo?id, Ay, for their more safety. The jealous Queen in her stern cruelty Threatened to seize the innocent babes ; and he, My Henry — Oh with what a tenderness He won me to resign them ! My own Henry ! Lies not the shadow straighter ? Mabel. Somewhat, madam. Rosamond. 'Twill soon be even. Did I never tell thee The story of his wooing ? Listen, girl, Sit here and listen. 'Twas a glorious day, A glorious autumn day, as bright and clear As this, the small white clouds now softly sailing Along the deep blue sky, now fixed and still, As the light western breeze, arose or sank By fits — A glorious day ! I and my maids Sat by the lakelet in my father's park Working as we do now ; right merrily, FAIR ROSAMOND. 145 For young and innocent maids are in their nature Gay as the larks above their heads. The scene Was pleasant as the season ; not a spot Of the Lord Clifford's wide demesne could vie With this in beauty. Woods on every side Ash, oak, and beech, sloped downward to the clear And quiet waters, overhung by tufts Of fern and hazel and long wreaths of briars, Only one little turfy bank was free From that rich underwood — there we sate bending Over a tapestry loom, until we heard A horn sound right above us, and espied A hunter threading the rude path which wound To our sequestered bower. Oh what a sight It was ! the managed steed, white as the foam Of some huge torrent, fiery, hot, and wild. Yet reined into a tameness by his bold And graceful rider, winning with slow steps His way mid those huge trees; now seen, now lost, L 110 DRAMATIC SCENES. Now in bright sunshine, now in deepest shade ; The red autumnal tints of those old woods Contrasting well the huntsman's snow-white steed And garb of Lincoln green. No sign bore he Of prince or king, save in the sovran grace Of his majestic port, his noble brow, His keen commanding eye. My maidens fled Soon as they saw the stranger. Mabel. And thou, lady ? Rosamond. Why I too thought to fly, but loitered on Collecting the bright silks and threads of gold, Careful excuse that to myself I made For lingering there, till he approached ; and then When I in earnest turned to go, he stayed me With such a smile and such a grace, and craved My aid so piteously, for he had lost Comrades and hounds and quarry and himself In that morn's chase, that I was fain to proffer Guidance to our old castle. FAIR ROSAMOND. 117 Mabel. He went with thee ? Rosamond. No. At Lord Clifford's name he started, —Mabel, Shun thou the lover that shall start to hear Thy father's name. — With slight excuse he rode To seek his partners of the chase. But oft From that day forth we met beside the lake ; — And often when November storms came fast, Driving against the casement, I have wept Drop for drop with the sky, if my dear father In his fond care forbad his Rosamond To brave the raging tempest ; all my heart Was in that bare damp wood and on the bank Of that dark water, where my lover stood To wait my coming, patiently as sits The nightingale beside his brooding mate. How could I chuse but love him ? MabeL Didst thou know Thy lover for the king ? Rosamond. Not till my love L 2 118 DRAMATIC SCENES. Had been confessed ; then he in turn confessed The fatal secret. What a coil of wild And desperate passions woke within my heart Fear, shame, and pride, and anger, but true love O'ermastered all ; we fled, and I am here. Mabel Alas ! Rosamond. Nay, wherefore cry, Alas ? — My Father — I must not think of him — Out on thee, wench ! That sigh of thine hath saddened me, hath brought Fond thoughts of days of old — the blessed days When I was innocent and happy ! Girl, Thou hast a father, an old white-haired man Who loves thee. Leave him not, I charge thee, Mabel ! Bring not those white hairs to the grave wuth shame For thy foul sin ! Mabel. Oh weep not, dearest lady ! Look how the shadow hath crept on ! and surely I hear a clamour at the gate — (Noise without.) A tumult Even in the Hall. Dost thou not hear ? FAIR ROSAMOND. 149 Rosamond. 'Tis he, My king ! my Henry ! Quick, let's meet him ! — No, I must first dry my tears — Yet did I ever Meet Henry without tears ? — Where loiters he ? Mabel. And what may mean that cry ? The noise comes near ; Heaven grant that all be well ! Enter Constance. Rosamond. Hath aught befallen The King? Is Henry safe? Speak! Speak! Constance. Fly, Madam, Fly to the secret chamber. Our brave knights Are overpowered ; and we undone. The Queen Approaches. Enter Queen Eleanor, Guard's, &c. Eleanor. Minion, she is here. Fly not, Proud concubine. Rosamond. I think not of it. Eleanor. Guard 150 DRAMATIC SCENES. Each entrance well that she escape not. Women, Stand from about her. Wherefore kneel'st thou there ? Kosa?no7id. For mercy — Oh thy looks are terrible — For mercy and for pardon. Eleanor. Dar'st thou kneel To me for pardon ? Dost thou know me ? Rosamond. Yes ; Thou art a Queen, a mighty Queen, but still A woman ! — Women should be pitiful, Great Queens should pardon. Eleanor. I am Henry's wife. Dost ask for mercy now ? Aye sob, and shiver, And dash thy face against the ground, and lie Prostrate before me, minion. 'Tis my hour — (To one of her attendants.) Bring in the bowl, good Hubert ! — I have been A mockery of a Queen, whilst thou hast borne The power, the state, the reverence ; enshrined Within thy bower, like some vile Indian Idol, l*artner of Henry's heart, and more than partner FAIR ROSAMOND. 151 Of the fool people*s love. The very courtiers Grey-bearded counsellors^ and valiant knights And learned Bishops all have brought their suits To Rosamond, fair Rosamond — I'll mar That boasted beauty. — Bring the bowl, I say. — Where be her sons ? Rosamond (starting up). Oh Heaven is merciful ! They are not here ! They are safe ! Their innocent lives Are spared ! I thank thee, Lord, that in thy pity Refused the mother's prayer. My boys are safe ! Eleanor. I'll reach them, harlot, yet. Rosamond. Oh no, thou wilt not. Thou art a mother ; thou hast boys as young As mine, aye, and as fair. I saw one once, A sweet and gracious child, he smiled upon me — Eleanor. He knew thee not. Rosamond, He smiled upon me, Queen, And in my heart I blest him. 'Twas thy Geoffrey. If e'er thou meet my children, think on him, 152 DRAMATIC SCENES. And thou'lt not harm them. Not to be in truth King Henry's wife, could I have injured him. Eleanor. Peace ! smooth and wily serpent ! I came hither Not to hold parley, but to execute A needful justice on a desperate sinner. Rosaynond. We are all sinners. Eleanor. Bring the cup. Drink that, Or bare thy bosom to the sword. Rosamond. 'Tis poison ! Eleanor. Swift sudden poison. Drink ! Rosamond. Not yet ! Not yet ! The sternest justice yields some little pause Betwixt the sentence and the death. Grant thou Some respite for dear charity. An hour ! Only an hour ! Eleanor. Drink, minion. Rosamond. I must die, I knew that when I saw thee ; but unshriven, Without the rite of holy Church, or prayer FAIR ROSAMOND. 153 Of pious priest ! I ask thee not for life, Albeit life is precious, I but crave Such ghostly comfort as is given to thieves And murderers on the scaffold. Eleanor, Drain the bowl — Or seize her, archers, and with your sharp swords Let out her life. Rosamond. Alas ! for womanhood Yield me not up to these stern men ! I'll drink The poison. Now farewell to hope, and joy, And love the latest passion. (She drinks the poison and a trumpet is heard without.) Eleanor. Hark ! that trumpet ! Rosamond. I know the sound — The King ! the King ! Too late Thou com'st, my Henry. Eleanor. Aye ! The bowl is drained. I am triumphant — Let King Henry come, My gi-eat revenge is sure, and for my fate 1 reck not. 151< DRAMATIC SCENES. (Enter King Henry, and Guards,) Henry. Wherefore be the warders changed And Reginald Fitz-Urse Queen Eleanor ! I read the riddle now — but I am here To guard thee, Rosamond, and clear thy bower Of these stern visitants. Avoid the castle All ye of the Queen's train ! Sir Hugh de Clinton, See that my bidding be obeyed, and line The courts with my stout yeomen. [Exeunt the Queen's guards. So ! Fair Madam I prythee back to Windsor ! I am loath To use a husband's power — ay or a king's — But tempt me not ! — I know thee, Eleanor, And so far can endure — no farther. Back To Windsor, Queen ! Yon gentle trembler sits Shivering like a new caged bird — Depart I warn thee. Madam ! For as I'm a knight, As I'm a man, I cannot chuse but soothe The lovely wretch that suffers for my sin. FAIR ROSAMOxND. 155 Wilt thou not bid me welcome, sweet ? nor thank The precious chance that brought me here to change Hatred and malice into love and joy ? Rosamond, Joy ! Henry, Did she speak? Her gladsome voice is changed ; And that sweet word rang like a knell ! Take comfort, My Rosamond. Rosamond. Comfort ! But 'tis a comfort To see thee once again, once ere we part. Henry. Who hath dared speak of parting ? Wlio could part Two hearts that loved like ours ? Who dare to sever King Henry from his love ? Eleanor. A mightier king, The mightiest of the mighty — Death. Yon bowl Hath well avenged me. Henry. Poisoned ! Fiend accurst, Full of all vice that woman ever knew, Wanton in youth, and jealous in thine age, 156 DRAMATIC SCENES. And now a murderess, look to find a vengeance Stupendous as thy crimes ! Rosmnond. Henry ! Henry, My Rose, My murdered Rose, how could I waste a thought On aught save thee ! Go ransack all the land For costly antidotes, search all the earth For skilful leeches ! Say, I'll give my crown To him that saves my Rosamond. My fairest, Thou shalt not die. Eleanor. The crowns of the whole earth Could not preserve her life an hour. The draught Was deadly. Thou wilt see her boasted charms A loathsome mass in thine embraces. Henry. Slay Yon fiend ! She maddens me. Rosamond. Nay, touch her not. Forgive me, 'tis the first time I e'er crost A wish of thine She must not die, Hejirij. Had she FAIR ROSAMOND. 157 A heart, those words would kill her. — Oh my Rose, That I could die with thee ! Rosamond. No"! thou must live For England, for thy children. My poor boys ! Could I have seen them — send not, 'tis too late ! A little space, and thy poor Rosamond Shall join her kindred clay. My boys ! say to them That with her parting breath their mother blessed Oh no ! no ! no ! I have no right to bless As virtuous mothers have. I am a curse To all my kindred, even to them who drew Their being from my crime. Let them forget Their mother's very name ; and breed them humbly — Promise me that, my Henry. Henry. Rosamond They shall be bred as Princes. Rosamond, Oh no ! no ! Humbly, most humbly. I was ne'er ambitious 'Midst all my sins. I loved thee for thyself Not for thy rank. 'Twas not the king I worshipped, 158 DRAMATIC SCENES. But Henry, mine own Henry ! Breed them humbly And say to Wilham (for his mounting spirit Already fears me) that he take no vengeance For this rash deed. Henry. He shall not need. That task Is mine. Rosamond. That task is one forbid by Heaven. I do conjure thee, Henry, by the love Thou bear'st me, for the weal of thine own soul — Eleanor. Go to, I fear him not. Henry. I thought to slay her, But that were mercy. She shall live. Why leave My circling arms, my Rosamond ? Why drag Thy trembling form toward yonder murderess ? Rosamond. Madam ! Nay, stay me not — 'twill ease my heart. I am dying- Untimely midst my sins, unshriven, unblest, By priest or bell, a sinner ! yet one duty Even I may fill at this last hour, to part In charity. FAIR ROSAMOND, 159 Eleanor. Dar'st thou to pardon me, Harlot, adulteress ? Rosamond. Queen, for that foul sin I crave thy pardon I Oh forgive me, Madam, As I forgive Henry. She sinks ! Off with yon fiend, To prison ! quick ! off with her ! (The guards take Eleanor away.) My beloved. How art thou ? Rosamond, Easier. Henry. Oh she'll live ! She'll live ! No ; no. Her cheeks grow whiter ; and her hands Cold, cold ; and scarce my trembling arms sustain Her sinking form. Rosamond. I'm easier. Henry. Is there aught That I can do to pleasure thee ? My sweet one, Speak to me. Rosamond. My poor children ! 160 DRAMATIC SCENES. Henry. Are they not My children, Rosamond ? Those boys will be My only comfort. I shall love them, dearest, Too fondly. Rosamond. And my father, my poor father ! Henry. He shall be mine. Rosamond. I'm easier. Turn my face Toward the south. The sunshine from the oriel Lies straight upon the floor ! 'Tis noon. — The hour I longed for, and I've heard thy voice and felt The pressure of thy lip, aye and been clasped To that fond heart ! We have been sinful, Henry, And therefore are we doomed ; have loved too well, And therefore — Oh that this poor life of mine May expiate our crimes ! that tl ou may'st be Happy and fortunate ! Henry. Pray for thyself, Sweetest ! What happiness is left for me When thou art gone ? Think but of thee. Rosamond. I cannot FAIR ROSAMOND. IGI If sin it be to love, that sin cleaves to me — Henry ! my king ! I'm faint. Henry. She falls! she dies ! Aye wet her temples with that essence. — Rosamond ! Is she gone, Constance ? Is the spirit fled ? My eyes are dizzy. One kiss more ! Her breath Is gone ; her lips are cold ; — She's dead, quite dead ; And I am left alone and desolate. My Rosamond, my love ! ]vi ALICE. A DRAMATIC SCENE. The scenery of this little drama is taken from the beautiHil grounds of the Great House at Arborfield, near Reading. The characters and the story are entirely fictitious. M 2 CHARACTERS. Mrs. Neville. Henry. Alice. ALICE. Scene. — A path by the side of a river. Henry in the foreground ; Mrs* Neville and Alice under some trees at the side. Henry. This is the spot so loved, so long unseen ! The very spot ! the brimming Loddon here, "Winding through grassy fields, gives back the blue And dappled sky so brightly, that it seems Part of another Heaven. There is the mill, Thwarting its course — the old and rustic mill, With its white low-browed cot, and wooden bridge That seems, yet is not, dangerous ; there the church With its square tower ; and nearer that vast pile Whose pointed roofs and porch and pinnacles And carved and massive windows give a date 10*6 DRAMATIC SCENEf^. Prouder than the huge oaks which overtop The clustered chimneys — cold and cheerless now ! No wreathing smoke bids welcome to the old Ancestral hall, vacant and desolate, But beautiful — how beautiful ! The shrubs Grown into trees and blossoming profuse, As in those flowery forests where they live Seen but of Heaven, — Ah ! beneath the trees — 'Tis they ! It must be they! That slender woman, Bending her fair and patient cheek o'er work Scarce whiter than her hands — the widow's cap — The close grey gown — the undying loveliness — It is herself! And that young graceful girl, Nor child nor woman, who in colourless And sculptural beauty stands, severely pure, Pale as a water-lily — that is Alice ! Her eyes — would I could see her eyes ! — are sealed On that unconscious book. — I'll speak to them. (Advancing to Mrs. Neville and Alice). Madam, I pray you pardon me !— This path^ ALICE. 1G7 So green and overgrown — doth this path lead To Cleveland Hall ? Mrs. Neville. It doth — alas ! it did. The hall is silent now and tenantless ; None treads the moss-grown road. Henry, What, is there none Within the inhospitable walls, to cheer The poor man's heart ? Not one to ope the gate To cimous strangers, or the humbler wants Of the sick way-worn traveller ? What, none ? Not even a servant ? Mrs. Neville. None. You lean your head Against the trees, as sick or weary too. Oh, rest you here awhile ! Find such a seat As mine, midst these old roots; and if you need Refreshment — Henry. Stir not, Madam ! my weak words May ill express strong gratitude. To sit Here is the perfectest repose ; amid Such shade, such freshness, where the greenness falls 168 DRAMATIC SCENES. Like dew upon the burning eyes ; such smells Swinging from the lime blossom, and the breath Of flaunting woodbines ; and such coil of bees Gathering their harvest. It is worth a life Of that dull common joy which men call bliss, So to be weary, and to find such rest. Mrs. Neville. You come from far ? Henry. From Oxford here, to meet The heir of yon fair hall. Alice. Ah ! he knows him ! Henry (aside). Now those stars shine upon me ! Alice. You know him ! Mother, he know^s Lord Claremont. Mrs. Neville. Oh, the book Is closed, which this long morning hath absorbed Thy every sense — thou hast not seen thy young And dear companions, when they wooed thee forth To the gay hay-field ; hast not heard my voice — Not though that voice called Alice. Alice. Not heard thee ! ALICE. 1G9 Mother, not thee ! — Oh fie upon thy charm, Sweet poesy ! — Not hear thy voice ! Henry. What lay Hath snch enchanthig power ? (She gives him the book). The Faerie Queen ! Oh gentle poet of the summer sky, The fresh air, the green earth ! how suited thou To this wild pastoral scene, and this young hand Trembling with modesty ! Mrs. Neville. She'll hang all day Over that tale of Una. Henry. . But this shower Of snowy rose-leaves — sure it was her mark ! — Dropt from that tenderest page, where Britomart, Pining for love, heartsick and desolate, Is by her old nurse comforted and cheered. And hushed to sleep like an o'erweary babe. Euripides himself, in the famed scene Of Phaedra — no, nor Shakspeare, when he melts 170 DRAMATIC SCENES. The very soul with Juliet's tender woe — Touched not more truly the witch-notes of love Than that old simpleness. Mi's. Neville. Yet Britomart — ' Alice, it was a silly maid that loved A picture. Alice, Mother, no! Oh no! She loved The high idea, the bright imagining Of her own soul. Gentleness, valour, truth, And lofty faith, and noble thought — 'twas these She loved ; the magic image did but clothe, But lend a form to the diviner mind Which her pure fancy moulded. Henry (aside). Now she stoops To kiss her mother's hand ! — Sweet artifice Of maiden shame, to hide the crimson glow Her ardent speech hath brought upon the cheek That was all lily ! (aloud) Go not ! [Exit Alice. Mrs. Neville, She is gone To join her youthful comrades. ALICE. 171 Henry* Ay, she moves Towards them with a gentle dignity, As yonder cygnet glides along the stream. Look ! what a picture 'tis to see her pause Under the brow of that lone summer-house Which overhangs the water, overhung With ivy and wild woodbine, backed with firs So old and vast and shadowy, that they lend A blackness to the deep rank grass ; and crowned With poplars of such growth, such spiral height — The stately columns of eternal Rome Matched not the pair of living monuments That shoot their tapering heads into the sky. She pauses there, the beautiful ! — amidst That beauty, lifting her fair hand to shade The light from those blue eyes — she passes now Beneath the firs — she disappears. Yon scene — ■ Hath she not left a track of brightness there, That living sunbeam ? — Yon fair scene is made For happiness. — You sigh. IT^ DRAMATIC SCENES. Mrs. Neville. Oh, once it was ! Once — but that beauty now strikes to my soul A shivering chiUness — Oh, it smiles upon me, As the cold moon upon the colder grave. Thou know'st Lord Claremont — that fair hall once owned Another master. Hast thou never heard The tale of shame and sorrow ? Henry, I have heard, Darkly, mysteriously, enough to wake Deep pity. Would'st thou — Stranger as I am I dare not ask — Mrs, Neville. Stranger although thou be, There is a pity in thy voice, thine eyes, Thy smile, that looks like comfort : thou art born To listen to sad stories. Didst thou ever Hear of Sir Edward Mortimer ? Henry, The grandsire Of this young Lord ? the master of yon grand And reverend pile ? Often. Mrs. Neville. He was a man ALICE. 173 Of that tree spirit, which doth scatter bUss As winds the summer blossom. In his eye Dwelt mirth, and kindness in his speech, and love In his warm heart — love of all human kind. Something men spake of wildness in his youth ; But when, after long travel, he brought home A lovely lady and two cherub babes, Seemed not a wiser or a better man. Henry. And she ? Mrs. Neville. She was a thing of life and light And beauty. Such a vision as erst filled The dreamy soul of Guido, when he drew His bright Aurora. Such a brilliant flush Of health, and joy, and youth — eternal youth ! Year after year rolled on, and stole no charm No smile from that fair woman. Strangers saw her Propped on her son's supporting arm, or throwing Her white hand round her daughter's waist, and deemed She was their you' ger sister. Oh, how proud That noble son was of her peerless grace ! 174 DRAMATIC SCENES. With wliat a sweet and tender flattery He spake, and with what smiling blushes she Would listen ! 'Twas a house of love. The daughter- Henry. Was she not like thy Alice ? Mrs. Neville, Ay, as like As two white roses. Thou canst scarce have seen The Lady Claremont ? Thou art all too young. Henry. I've seen her portrait, where young purity Is pictured to the life. She sits upon A rock by the sea-shore, her starry eyes Fixed on the gloomy sky, as if to wait The raging of the storm. Mrs. Neville, It came ! It came ! Poor Mary Mortimer ! almost a child, Lord Claremont saw and loved her; she loved him ; And they were wedded. After a brief year Of perfect bliss he died, and she returned To the paternal home, with one fair boy, To see her father die. Henry. Alas ! alas I ALICE. 175 Mrs, Neville. Sigh not for them that died — Sigh not for them — They were the happy. Years had passed away, And grief was gone, another Edward ruled Within the old hereditary hall — Another kinder, dearer — all built up Of dignity and honour. He had wooed And wedded a young maiden, only rich In love. The gentle countess and her boy Dwelt with them, and his mother with her looks Of beauty, her glad voice, her step of youth. Oh, how the days flew then, when I — for I Am that most wretched wife that was most blest ! Oh, how the days flew by, whilst Alice clung Around my knee, half jealous when she saw My William at my breast ; or tottered round Those giant trees ; or on the velvet lawn Rolled in her joy, lisping her half-learnt words To the dear cousin, whose sweet serious eyes Pursued her every motion ! kind and frank, 17(3 DRAMATIC SCENES. And noble boy ! I seem to see him now, With his bright face peeping among the boughs Of yonder sweet briar, whilst my fairy girl Sought her dear playmate, and the summer sun Declining, streamed a glory round her form ; And I stood watchino- them almost with tears — So the deep gladness stirred me — when across Her lovely childish voice, and the gay laugh Of the hidden boy, came quick shrill piercing cries Of sudden woe ; and rushing to the house, I saw that beauteous mother on the floor, Pale, speechless, prostrate, writhing ; whilst her son With folded arms, and withering eyes, looked on ; And her distracted daughter shrieked in gusts Of helpless agony. Why shak'st thou thus ? Henry. Man is not made of stone. Be brief. Even now I hear her screaming ! Oh, be brief! Mrs. Neville. The boy Had followed me ; and trembling with the new ALICE. 177 Strange sense of misery, seized my husband's hand, And looked up in his face. Then, then he burst From dreadful silence to more dreadful speech, Cursinfr the mother at his feet, the child Within his hand, the blessed light of day, And life, and love ! Darkly the tale of woe Came from him. That fair, panting, crouching thing, Quivering beneath her shame, she had confessed Her frailty. Not till after Edward's birth Did his dead father wed her he had been An innocent usurper. At one word We lost our name, our wealth, our very home. Delay had maddened him : before the sun Was set, we and our children had passed forth From this fair heritage, poor wanderers Upon the earth. The gentle heiress staid, Death-struck with the disgrace that seemed to stain Even her white purity. In one short month Her passing-bell had knolled. Henry, Poor — poor — But she. N 178 DRAMATIC SCENES. The wretchedest, the mother ? Mrs, Neville. Ere she rose From off the ground where she had plunged her shame, Her brown hair turned to white. She died not : youth And joy and beauty died ; but she lives on In penitence. Henry. And he ? Mrs, Neville. Oh what a slow And weary death is grief when it contends With manhood's healthful prime ! We wandered on Through many lands. He could not bear the sight Or sound of aught familiar — his own name Was as a dagger to him ; every smile Of his unconscious son a deeper stab : Only my gentle Alice her he loved — Her only ! till at last his heart grew strong As his frame weakened, and he longed once more To see the hall — Twas speedy then — He lies Under yon yew tree. I have never left — I cannot leave — ALICE. 179 Re-enter Alice. A lice. Mother ! — Doth she not weep ? — Ah me ! that tears should sadden such an hour ! — Mother ! oh, smile upon me ! I bring news Of joy. He comes to-day — this very day — It is his birthday. I am come for flowers — Doth not Lord Claremont love them ? Henry, Yes : but most The pure white rose. Alice. Look how it blossoms here Amid the flaunting briar — the purest rose. We shall soon fill the basket. Mrs. Neville. Claremont comes, The heir, to take his state, to fill the hall With revelry ; and William — my poor boy ! — Thou art Lord Claremont's friend — canst thou forgive A mother's tenderness ? Heiiry. Madam, each word Each patient tear of thine drew answering drops N 2 - y 180 DRAMATIC SCENES. From my sad heart. I knew, as Claremont knew, Imperfectly, the story of his race. Oh ! it has made the grief of his young hfe. His splendid orphanage, to bear the weight Of wealth which should be yours — to feel your woe, To fear your hatred. Alice. Hatred ! what, to him? The kindest, noblest, best ! Hatred to him ! And from my mother ! And 'tis thou his friend That talk'st so ! Chide him mother. But thou know'st not Thou canst not know, how exquisitely one Claremont and goodness are. We were so poor Till Claremont succoured us ; a stripling then, And under a stern guardian's tutelage. He gave up every costly gaud of youth For us. Nay, that were little. He sought out Poor William in his distant school ; he wrote To me with such a graciousness ; he sent Gifts such as brothers to their sisters send — ALICE. 181 Books, music, flowers : this pretty basket — see How like a bee-hive the bright straw is wrought — This basket came from him. And thou canst talk Of hatred! Henry. Happiest ! happiest ! Mrs. Neville. She is right; The passing pang is o'er : I cannot grieve To see the noblest of a noble race Even in my husband's seat. Alice. Would he were here ! Mother, shall we not know him ? I remember, Do I not mother, his dark curling hair, And his mild serious eyes and rosy cheeks, And how I used to love him I Mrs. Neville. Wilt thou tell him All this ? Alice. Why should I not? and yet sometimes I have a fluttering at my heart — an awe — A sinking. — Is it fear ?— 'Twere wrong to fear Such goodness: yet, in sooth, I tremble, mother; 182 DRAMATIC SCENES. I know not why. If he were gentle like If he would take my hand, and only say, Alice ! Henry (taking her hand). My cousin Alice ! Fly me not, Alice ! Alice, Lord Claremont ! Henry. Nay, thy Henry, sweet one. It was the first word that thou spakest, Alice ; Do not forget it now. Forgive me, Madam, That I thus stole upon ye ! Oh, forgive My deeper but unwilling guilt ! At length I can be just. The old ancestral hall, The wide demesne, are thine. Within an hour Thy gentle William will be there to fill His father's seat —the heir. Oh, thank me not : I am still rich in my paternal wealth — A beggar still in love. I have no mother — Be thou one to me : let thy William call Me brother. ALICE. 183 Alice. And poor Alice ? Henry. 'Tis through her That I would claim that title. Mrs. Neville. My dear son ! HENRY TALBOT. A DRAMATIC SCENE. They who are acquainted with the neighbourhood of Marlow, may perhaps recognise Seymour Court as the scene of this little drama. It is scarcely necessary to say that the characters and the story are altogether fictitious. CHARACTERS. Henry Talbot. Sir Francis Mordaunt. Eleanor, Talbot's Sister. Louisa, his Ward. Scene, Ati elegant Drawing-room, with windows to the ground, opening on a Terrace, ornamented xoith roses, ^c. HENRY TALBOT. Eleanor and Mordaunt enteriiig. Eleanor. Sir Francis Mordaunt, to a mournful house I bid you welcome ! But you bring us comfort— His truest friend, his dearest ! only you Would he rejoice to see. When I first heard Your late return from Italy, there rushed Over my heart a gladness, a strange feeling, That glowed like hope. Mordaunt. This is a sad, sweet welcome. He is no better, then 1 Eleanor. Oh, no ! Mordaunt. And what Is his disease? 188 DRAMATIC SCENES. Eleanor. A settled melancholy, That doth consume his body ; a decay Even at the noble heart. Mor daunt. The cause ? Eleanor. I know not. Mordaunt. Oh, it must be some rooted malady That works thus in him ! Never can I join Sadness and Henry Talbot. When we parted, One little year ago, I gazed on him As he stood on the sea beach, in all the pride Of youth and manly beauty, his bright glance Pursuing the swift vessel, and I thought, If ever happiness find rest on earth, She dwells in that fine form. High birth, high fortune, High talent, high pursuit, the general praise. The general love, — for his sweet graciousness Commanded hearts, — and, better still than this, Domestic bliss, affection, friendship, love, And such a power to feel and give delight ; Such deep humanity, such a fine sense IIENllY TALBOT. 189 Of beauty and of virtue ! Set aside His one infirmity of sudden anger, As suddenly forgotten and redeemed By instant penitence and generous shame, And he might be the ideal of a man, The standard all look up to. Eleanor. Such he was : You paint him to the life. How proud was I — Too proud — of that dear brother ! You will find A sadly altered man. Mordawit. He used to be The very model of true cheerfulness ; A gay and open spirit, which did feed Upon its own pure thoughts. All mirth, all smiles ! Eleanor. He hath forgot to smile. Mordawit. Withal so kind — - So exquisitely kind ! Eleanor. That he is still ; Kindness and he are so incorporate, That death alone can part them. My dear brother ! 190 DRAMATIC SCENES. Mordaunt. Such love as thine would once have soothed all ills. How long hath this change been. Eleanor. Oh, many months ! Ever since that summer evening on the Thames — That fatal August evening, — when their boat Upset, and Lionel Grey, his foster-brother, Was most unhappily drown'd. My brother, too, Striving in vain to save him, almost lost His life. He dived for the corse, and with the corse Was brought out motionless. A fever follow'd — A fever on the brain : — Oh the black horrors Of that long dream ! Those horrors passed away ! But a dark cloud remains. Mordaunt. The consequence Of a long fever. He must change the scene ; Must woo the sweet breath of the south ; must go To lovely Italy. I will return With him, with you. Eleanor. Nought can persuade him hence ; HENRY TALBOT. 191 And surely — (it is terrible to say, To think, to feel !) — too surely this disease Is of the mind, the heart. Something doth weigh — Thou art my brother's friend, and I to thee Speak as a brother — something — oh, it breaks My heart to think of it ! Mordaunt. I'd stake my life That he is blameless. Eleanor. Just so have I felt A thousand times. But then he speaks wild words, And my wild fear — oh, free me from that fear. And I will worship thee ! And comfort him, I do beseech thee, comfort him, whate'er — Do not desert him, even — I cannot speak : But love him ! Comfort him ! Forsake him not ! Mordaunt. Never. But his best comforters must be His sister — and one other. Dare I ask, Was there not one still dearer, whose true love, Whose faith, whose sympathy — I mean his ward. The lovely orphan, his betrothed bride. 19^ ©KAiMATIC SCENES. Eleanor. Poor, poor Louisa ! Yes, she still is here. Poor, jDOor Louisa ! Mordaunt. Eighteen months have passed Since I last saw her. Never did I see A maid so sweet, so fair, so delicate, Or so devoted — living in his smiles, As the butterfly in the sunbeam. And so young, So made for peace and rest and happiness. As if she were herself some airy creature. Whom the first storm would shatter. Through this grief What hath sustained her ? Eleanor. The deceiver, hope. She watches Henry's cheek, and if a flush Of the bright treacherous hectic chance to cross it, Then is she happy ; hangs upon his words ; And if one flash burst from the clouded spirit — One tone of the old love— poor, poor Louisa! Would that she were afraid ! When it does come, The stroke will kill her. Mordaunt. Have you then no hope ? HENRY TALBOT. 193 Eleanor. Hark ! That's his step. Nay, do not rush to meet him ; He camiot bear surprise. — Hark to that step, So slow, so feeble ! He is pausing now For breath. Alas ! alas ! is not that step The very knell of hope ? Enter Talbot. Here is our friend, Brother ! Mordaunt. Dear Talbot ! Talbot, Mordaunt, this is kind — Too kind ! Eleanor. First let us place you on your couch ; Then will we join to thank this kindest friend For his kind visit. Henry, he is come To nurse you, to usurp my office, Henry, Mordaunt. Rather to share it with you. Dearest Talbot, You must be well. o 194 DRAMATIC SCENES, Talbot. Oh this is kind, too kind ! I am not worthy, I was never worthy Of such a friend. And now — oh go ! go ! go ! Fly me ! Mordaunt. And wherefore ? Talbot. - ^^ hyj to have thee stay Would be a joy — and joy is not for me. Forgive me, Mordaunt ; I am sick and wayward — Sick at my soul — but it will soon be o'er. Eleanor. I will not have thee talk so ; good my brother, This is no gentle welcome — (Advancing towards the window with Mordawit, and speaking to him apart.) For a while Seem not to observe him. This strong passion then Will pass away. Mordaunt, Is't frequent ? Eleanor, Yes. (aloud) Sir Francis, Yoiir comino: is well timed. Do you remember. HENRY TALBOT. 195 When you last honor'd us, 'twas at the close - Of a most glorious autumn. Our beech woods Own'd every tint of gold, from deepest red To palest yellow. Often would you praise Their woodland beauty, and as often I With a proud boastful spirit bade you come And gaze on them in May, and see the sunbeams Wandering across them, with such wondrous charm Of light and shadow, bringing into life The unspeakable beauty of their fresh green tops. This is the very height and prime of May : — Said the proud boaster sooth ? Go to yon window — Look on the distant woods. Mordaunt. To me this view Is always lovely ; loveliest as it is, Whate'er the season. This smooth sloping lawn, Sprinkled with odorous shrubs, suddenly sinking Into a steepness so abrupt ; the hills Sweeping away so finely ; and between. Deep in the bottom, the gay pretty town, o 2 l^f) DRAMATIC SCENES. Mingled with trees and gardens ; the church spire Lifting its white and taper head amidst The woody heights that bound the various scene ; And underneath those woods, round that fair town, Between those hills, the ever-winding Thames — Talbot. Ah ! Mor daunt. Glides, like a glittering snake, — Talbot. Oh true ! true ! true ! Mordaunt. Coyly, by snatches, at rare intervals Seen, but diffusing a perpetual sense Of his bright presence — prince of streams ! Talbot. Oh fatal ! Mordaunt (to Eleanor). Alas ! is that the grief? Talbot. Oh fatal! fatal! Fatal as man's wild passions, as the worm That never dies ! The mirror where black thoughts And blacker deeds — What have I said ? JEleanor. My Henry, Art thou in pain ? Did'st call me ? Would'st thou aught? No, did'st thou say ? Well, I will leave thee, Henry ! HENRY TALBOT. 197 (Apart to Mor daunt.) Approach him not -.—alone he will o'ermaster The pang that shakes him. Make as though you heard Nought that he says. Talk on. Mordaunt. My heart is full. Eleanor. And mine— Oh God ! But 1 have learnt this sad Hypocrisy, this necessary hardness. See, he is calmer ! I beseech you, talk — He listens — (Aloud). Then you grant that May is fair Even as October in our prospect here ? Mordaunt. The picture is as bright. And yet I miss The autumnal beauty of this arching roof Of trellis, richly hung with clustering vines, Tendrils and leaves and fruit, a gorgeous frame For the fair picture. Sweet it was to gaze — And sweet it is. You look down on the world From this calm seat, as from her lofty nest The ring dove. Talbot, Ay, it is an apt resemblance, 198 DRAMATIC SCENES. My own sweet sister bird. Eleanor. Nay, dearest brother, My nest should be more lowly ; I would build On the ground, and look still upward. There's a farm Close by — oh we must show it you, Sir Francis — Which is almost my envy. And it is The prettiest walk ! Through a beech-wood the path, A wild, rude copse-road, winds, beneath the light And feathery stems of the young trees, so fresh In their new delicate green, and so contrasting With their slim, flexile forms, that almost seem To bend as the wind passes, with the firm Deep-rooted vigor of those older trees, And nobler, — those grey giants of the woods, That stir not at the tempest. Oh ! that path Is pleasant, with its beds of richest moss, And tufts of fairest flowers, fragrant woodroof So silver white, wood-sorrel elegant. Or light anemone. A pleasant path Is that ; with such a sense of freshness round us, HENRY TALBOT. 199 Of cool and lovely light ; the very air Has the hue of the young leaves. Downward the road Winds till beneath a beech, whose slender stem Seems toss'd across the path, all suddenly The close wood ceases, and a steep descent Leads to a valley, whose opposing side Is crowui'd with answering woods ; a narrow valley Of richest meadow land, which creeps half up The opposite hill ; and in the midst a farm, With its old ample orchard, now one flush Of fragrant bloom ; and just beneath the wood, Close by the house, a rude deserted chalk-pit, Half full of rank and creeping plants, with briars And pendent roots of trees half covered o'er, Like some wild shaggy ruin. Beautiful To me is that lone farm. There is a peace, A deep repose, a silent harmony Of nature and of man. The circling woods Shut out all human eyes ; and the gay orchard Spreads its sweet world of blossoms, all unseen, 200 DRAMATIC SCENES. Save by the smiling sky. That were a spot To hve and die in. Mordaunt. Beautiful it must be ; But fancy makes the charms she tells, as the sunbeams, Tenderly wandering o'er those distant woods, Bring out their exquisite tints. Eleanor. Nay, if you doubt — Brother, the sun and air to-day are join'd In a rare compact ; 'tis the warmth of June, With April's balmy breath. Come forth, dear Henry ! We'll put my poney in the garden-chair. And soon convert this unbeliever. Come ! It will revive you. Let us lead him thither. You will enjoy this air. Talbot. I am not worthy To breathe it, Eleanor. That innocent joy Belongs to the innocent. Eleanor. Nay, you must come, I'll call Louisa, and prepare the chaise. You will not fail us, Henry ? \_Exit Eleanor. HENRY TALBOT. 201 Mordaunt. Beautiful Is sisterly love ; divinely beautiful In yonder noble maid. How firm, how gentle, How like the purity of some old marble Is she in form and mind ! Even her young beauty, The very language of her lofty brow, Is queen-like, till she bends to speak to thee. With such affectionate softness, and a look So touchingly sweet. Alas ! I have no sister. How blest ye are together ! Talbot. Blest we were ; But now — the word is mockery ; yet we were Once blest. You know that we were twins and orphans Alone in the wide world, and all the world To one another. I so proud of her ! And she so fond of me ! Mordaunt. You still so proud ; She still so fond. Talbot, Ay ; but the joy is gone, Once we were call'd alike : look on me now, 202 DRAMATIC SCENES. And look on her, A red and withering hand Hath past over my youth, and turn'd my blood To fire. Her care, her grief, her misery, Am I. 'Twill soon be past. Mordaunt. Nay, you must live For that twin sister's sake ; to pay her care ; To bless her love. Talbot. I have no right to love ; I am infected. That which was my bliss Is now my punishment. I have no right To kindness, hers or yours ; or that of one Whose deeper tenderness doth pierce my heart As with a dagger. One so patiently. So exquisitely true ; so trusting, yet So fearful; all made up of the fond hope That trembling sits and smiles. What agony To look upon that smile, and watch that hope. And know how false, how hollow ! I've deserved Even that bitterest drop. Mordaunt. This is, indeed. HENRY TALBOT. 203 A sickness of the soul. Henry, we two Have been, from boy to youth, from youth to man, Friends ; not of such as borrow friendship's name To gild the flimsy band that knits gay striplings In light companionship, or the politic league Of subtle selfish man ; but friends of the old Heroic cast, such as forbear, and bear. And serve, and love, and die, and trust their lives To the proved faith of friendship. Talbot. Such we were, And if a spirit so fallen — Mordaunt, Such we are ; And being such, I do conjure thee, Henry, By that old friendship, by the gushing tears Which fill'd our eyes at meeting, by the love Which even now is working in our breasts, Confide in me. Disclose the fatal secret Which weighs upon your soul. Talbot. What ! cast the shade Of guilt on thy white honour ? Tell to thee, 204f DRAMATIC SCENES. To thee that deadly Never ! never ! never ! Here let it die ! — Here ! here ! Even though it swell My heart to bursting. Mordaunt. Henry, you are ill ; And your sick fancy in the wayward mood, Turns error into crime. A purer mind, A nobler heart, and, set aside the rare And momentary flash of sudden wrath, A kinder temper Talbot. Momentary ! Ay, So is the thunderbolt. Mordaunt. I do implore, Even as I would sue for present life. Brood not upon this tale. Or tell it me, Or chase it from thy memory. Talbot. Listen, then. Since thou wilt share the load, — since thou wilt wrest The murderer's story, listen ! Mordaunt. Murderer ! Talbot. Why, I have said it. Didst thou think that I HENRY TALBOT. 205 Was dying for some trivial larceny — Some poor man's common crime ? Sir, thou shalt find I am a braver villain ! Mordaunt. Talk not thus. I pray you, talk not thus. Be calm ! Be calm ! Talbot. And he would still a breaking heart with words, As Canute talk'd — He weeps ! Forgive me, friend ! Truest and best, and dearest, pardon me ! For I am near bestraught with misery. And know not what I say. Forgive me, Mordaunt, And listen. Didst thou e'er First reach that water, And sit down here by me ; for I must speak Names that will shake my very soul, and then The voice may falter. Interrupt me not ; For I have now a passing hour of strength, A gleam of parting light, and I would fain Pour into thy kind bosom my remorse, My agony. So! Did you ever see Lionel Grey ? 206 DRAMATIC SCENES. Mot daunt. Never. Talbot. Nor his dear mother, The widow Grey ? Mordaunt. Your nurse ? That kindest woman ! Often. Talbot. She was, indeed, the kindest woman. The simplest, gentlest, sweetest-spirited woman That ever trod the earth ; — my foster-mother, Who look'd around on all her little world With the indulgent softness that she felt For the infant at her breast ; for me, whom most She loved ; for me, who most loved her ; my refuge In every childish grief, the joyful sharer Of every childish joy ! Oh how I loved That dear and smiling face, made beautiful By the warm heart, and the soft pleasant voice That never spake but true and gentle words ! That never She is dead ! And I — nay, fear not — This pang will pass away. She had a son. An only child ; — the milk which nourish'd me HENRY TALBOT. 207 Was stolen from him. — Poor Lionel ! so soon Did I He was a lovely youth ; most richly Deck'd with all lighter graces, music, painting. And poesy ; and, as he grew to manhood, His talent grew finer and stronger. Proud Was his dear mother of his pretty songs, When Ellen Talbot sang them. Mordaunt. I have heard her. A queen might have been proud had such lips sung The lays of her king-son. Talbot. Poor Lionel Was with us long and often. In our house And in our hearts he held a brother's place, Till he at length forgot the unequal rank Which we would not remember. Rash and vain, And most presumptuous in his love ! — Alas ! And dare I blame him ? — I ! — My sister saw His passion for Louisa, and she strove To check his hopes ; but I saw nought, till all Fatally — fatally It was a day 208 DRAMATIC SCENES. Of sultry August, Lionel and I At sunset sought the river, and embarked Alone upon the waters. Oh how calm, How beautiful they were ! How made for peace ! The golden clouds shone into them, and there The soft and bright blue sky, fringed in by trees. My soul was lapp'd in the calm loveliness, The balmy silence. When, all suddenly, Lionel, heated as I think by wine. Demanded my Louisa's hand. Louisa ! Mine own affianced bride ! I told him this Calmly and soothingly ; and he replied That I might force her hand, but that her heart Was his. Then the strong frenzy mastered me, And with the oar I dashed him overboard, Stunn'd, stupefied ! I too stood motionless, Stunn'd, stupefied, till I saw the drowning wretch Rise on the waters. Then the sense returned ; The fear, the hope, the breathless agony. The desperate struggle. How I toiled to save HENRY TALDOT. 209 Whom I had murdered ! How I rowed and swam, And dived, and all but died ! We were drawn out Together ; he a breathless corse, and I A wretch that could not die, doomed to live on, With the new, aching, gnawing consciousness Of deadly crime here at my heart — here ! here ! Now, am I not a murderer ? Mordaunt. Surely, no. It was a frenzied impulse ; an unhappy, But unintended homicide. Thy will Was innocent of the deed. Talbot. Oft have I tried To think so; but I recollect too well I had a murderer's feelings when I raised Seek not to palliate. Mordaunt. Yet be comforted. Whate'er the crime, surely the penalty May expiate ; thy bitter sufferings, Thy deep and true repentance ! Talbot. Oh, if tears 210 DRAMATIC SCENES. Could wash out blood, no day hath passed but I Have thus embalmed his memory ! Grievously Have I been punished ; here, in my heart's core ; In undeserved respect ; in praise ; in love ; In poor Louisa ; in my noble sister; In all the tears I cause. All lovely things Combine to punish me ; the golden evening, The sunny waters, and the calm blue sky, They are my scourges ! Oh the agony That I have felt at kindness ! Most at hers, The mother's. After that most wretched night, My mind and body sank, alike subdued. For many weeks. A merciful pause it was Of misery ! I woke again to suffer. And the first person by my coiich was she In her deep mourning habit ; her pale face Covered with tears, yet trying for a smile ; And that voice, once so pleasant, low and hoarse. Yet striving still, in sweet and gentle words. To speak of love, and care, and gratitude HENRY TALBOT. 211 To me — Great God ! to me ! — for all I dared To save her son ! She thanked me, and she blessed me ! She blessed me ! Never curse struck to the soul Like that kind woman's blessing ! Mordaunt, And she died ? Talbot, She died. For many weeks I watched her bed, And then I closed her eyes, and followed her, And saw her laid by him ! That was my death-stroke. Then, when the earth fell cold on both my victims, My doom was sealed. Mordaunt. Oh say not so, dear Henry ! Live for us all. For poor Louisa, live ! — For thy own Eleanor ! — for me ! Talbot. My heart Is lighter. When I die, if Eleanor Should grieve, as well I think she will, oh ! tell her My story ; she will then be comforted That I am in my grave. Poor, poor Louisa ! When the oak falls, the ivy dies with it ; I' 2 SI 2 DRAMATIC SCENES. And she But T am better, lighter, easier 111 body and in soul. There is no balm ' So healing as a good man's pity. M or daunt. Say His love, his deep respect. Thou hast well practised The painfullest and noblest of all virtues — Repentance. Comfort thee ! Look forward, onward : Think in thy being how much happiness Is lapt. Talbot. Oh, my true friend ! Hark ! She comes here ! I know her tread afar, — her nymph-like tread, So light and quick. The graceful greyhound scarce Can match her graceful speed. Enter Eleanor and Louisa. Louisa. Sir Francis, welcome ! This is indeed a happiness. — How well He looks ! How much revived ! Eleanor. His face is flushed ; But that — HENRY TALBOT. 213 Louisa. Look at his eye ! and see ! see ! see ! He smiles again ! Oh blessings on his head Whose coming caused that smile ! Mordaunt. Why such a blessing Might draw a man from Afric. Louisa, I could chide him That he did not come sooner, the dear friend, Bringer of health and comfort. Talbot. My Louisa, I do begin to hope. Louisa. Oh blessed sound ! Talbot. When shall we forth into the woods, fair Ellen ? Eleanor. First, dearest brother, rest awhile. The sun Is overcast. Wait till the clouds disperse. Rest thee. Ay, so. Now, shall I read to thee ? Talbot. No. All this day, an old and favourite strain Hath echoed in mine ear. Wilt thou not sing it For mC; Louisa ? 214 DRAMATIC SCENES. Louisa. Yes ! oh yes ! Eleanor. But listening To her sweet voice is not repose. Mordaunt, What then ? Eleanor. Pleasure, exciting;, searching, rapturous pleasure ! Yet sing to him, Louisa ! See how pale, How shivering — Henry, thou art ill ag'ain ? Talbot. No ; 'twill pass off. Dearest and kindest sister, Believe, 'twill pass away. Now sing. Louisa* What song ? Talbot, That which is ringing in mine ears. The strain. Which, by the old tradition of our house, Was wont to usher in the nuptial morn Of all the Talbots — which I used to call Our bridal song, Louisa. I would fain Hear that song once again. Louisa. Not that ! not that ! HENRY TALBOT. 215 Eleanor. Yes. 'Tis a pleasant and a ringing air, And suits thee well ; thy springy form, thy voice, Young, lively, clear, thy blushing smile. Thou seem'st At once the quaint musician, the light nymph, Strewer of flowers, and the fair bride. Sing ! Sing ! Let's hear that pleasant strain. — Still paler! — Sing ! Louisa sings. Forth the lovely bride ye bring : Gayest flowers before her fling, From your high-piled baskets spread. Maidens of the fairy tread ! Strew them far, and wide, and high A rosy shower 'twixt earth and sky ! Strew about ! Strew about *! Bright jonquil, in golden pride. Fair carnation, freak'd and dyed, Strew about ! Strew about ! * For the burthen of this song " Strew about ! Strew about !" I am indebted to a song in Thomas Campion's " Memorable Masque." 2X6 DRAMATIC SCENES. Dark-eyed pinks, with fringes light. Rich geraniums, clustering bright, Strew about ! Strew about ! Flaunting pea, and harebell blue, And damask-rose of deepest hue, And purest lilies, maidens, strew ! Strew about! Strew about! Home the lovely bride ye bring : Choicest flowers before her fling, Till dizzying steams of rich perfume Fill the lofty banquet-room ! Strew the tender citron there. The crushed magnolia proud and rare, • . Strew about ! Strew about ! Orange blossoms, newly dropp'd, Chains from high acacia cropp'd, Strew about ! Strew about ! Pale musk-rose, so light and fine. Cloves, and stars of jessamine, Strew about ! Strew about ! HENRY TALBOT. 217 Tops of myrtle, wet with dew, Nipp'd where the leaflets sprout anew, Fragrant bay-leaves, maidens, strew ! Strew about ! Eleanor. Oh help ! he faints ! Help ! help ! His breath is gone. Mordaunt. Alas ! alas ! he ne'er 1 cannot find A pulse — alas ! he's dead ! Louisa. Dead ! dare not say it ! 'Tis but a swoon. He's better. He'll be well. Did he not say so, — he whose voice was truth ? And dost thou dare — Oh rouse thee, my own Henry, And I will sing to thee Eleanor. Oh hush ! hush ! hush ! Louisa. Will sing to thee the song thou lov'st so well. (Sings) Pale musk-rose so light and fine. Cloves, and stars of jessamine — Eleanor. Cease ! cease ! Oh this is horrible ! Weep ! Weep ! 218 DRAMATIC SCENES. Weep for thy Henry ! He is gone ! the kindest, Tlie tenderest, the best ! — Her brain is wandering. Louisa (sings). Home the lovely bride ye bring — I cannot sing. I have no breath. I tremble At my own voice. And he — he listens not. Henry ! He hears me not. He's dead ! he's dead ! Eleanor, he is dead ! Eleanor. She, too, will die ; That other dearest thing ! And I alone, And desolate — Mordaunt. No Ellen, not alone ! Eleanor. Oh tell me, thou his friend, what load of grief — Mordaunt. He died a penitent. Eleanor. For that, thank Heaven ! All else may be endured. My kindest brother ! My tenderest ! my best ! Farewell ! Farewell ! THE SIEGE. A DRAMATIC SCENE. CHARACTERS. BiANCA, Duchess of Mantua. Claudia, her young maid of honour. Count D'Osma, her general. Countess D'Osma, his wife. Orlando, an officer, Melzi, a chamberlain, AntoniO; a dumb page. Scene, The palace at Mantua. THE SIEGE. Duchess, Claudia, Melzi. Duchess. Now my good chamberlain, I pry thee send And tell the governor at six this evening We will attend the council. Hark ye, Sir ! Keep the door close. Let no one enter here, Soldier or statesman. 'Tis a day of truce ; For once the weary echoes sleep in peace Unroused by the loud cannonry ; I too Would fain for once be quiet, [Exit Melzi. Claudia mine, Sit down and talk to me, and comfort me, My little faithful girl. 222 DRAMATIC SCENES. Claudia. Ah ! dearest lady ! I would I were a man to fight for thee, And kill this terrible cousin ! Duchess. Out upon thee ! Thou kill a man, my pretty ladybird, My blossom of fourteen ! I did not think That thou hadst been so fond of fighting, Claudia ; I've seen thee quake and shiver and turn pale — Ay, as myself — at many a bloody sight And warlike sound this siege has forced upon us. Claudia. But if I were a man and even now, Poor coward as she is, for her dear mistress Would Claudia die. Duchess. That were no kindly service To thy poor loving misti'ess ! Rather wish That thou and I, remote from all this coil, Two cottage maidens, on some pleasant hill Dwelt peacefully. Claudia, should'st thou not like To sit at evening, working in the porch, Watching the sunset, whilst the vine-wreathed elms THE SIEGE. 223 Were richly gilded by his upward beams ; And thou would'st tell a hundred merry tales, And I should sing sweet snatches of old songs, The songs thou lov'st so well. Claudia. Oh ! we should be As blithe as two young birds ! Duchess. Such joy may come ; But there will be much tumult and unrest Before that blessed hour. Ah ! woe is me That ever I was born a princess, Claudia ! Claudia. That ever the ambitious prince Lorenzo Was born to claim your rightful crown ! Duchess, To win ! Nay start not, Claudia ; I have not a hope Remaining. Here we are, shut up in Mantua, — Mantua, which nought can save but speedy succour ; — And where to look for aid ! — All my allies Weak, wavering, treacherous, to my fortunate cousin Inclining, as the sunflower to the sun ; My valiant general wounded and a prisoner : 224^ DRAMATIC SCENES. And slic, his wife, whose prompt and active spirit Was well worth my whole council-board, she too A voluntary captive. Claudia. The dear countess ! How much we miss her quick and cheerful look, Her frank and pleasant speech ! Yet she was right To tend her husband's couch ; — was she not right ? Duchess. Oh ! yes. Claudia, And she will soon be back. I dreamt Last night that she was here, and the lord cardinal Your wisest uncle, and another lord,. — But not a cardinal, — so noble-looking, So lovely, yet so grand — and he and you— I must not tell your highness what I dreamt, But I will wager that the cardinal Will speedily be here. Duchess. Now Heaven forefend ! That wise lord cardinal, as thou call'st him, girl. He is my grief of griefs. I have a letter Of that wise lord's inditing. THE SIEGE. 225 Enter Melzi. How now, Sir ! Did we not say we would be private? Melzi. Madam, The Countess D'Osma. [Exit. Enter Countess D'Osma and Orlando. Duchess. Laura ! my own Laura ! Thou comest at a wish. Claudia and I Were talking of thee. Claudia. Nay, I dreamt of her — Countess. And be it for good or evil, Claudia's dreams Do still come true — say'st thou not so, my sweet one ? How the dear child clings to me ! Let me pay My love and duty here ; — my royal mistress ! My dearest friend ! Duchess. I ask not for my general ; To see thee here and smiling, is to know That he is better. S2G DRAMATIC SCENES. Countess. Better ; but still weak. Duchess. And may we hope to see him ? Will they hear Of ransom ? Claudia here would pawn her jewels, And so would I, even to my very crown, Could we so purchase that bold faithful friend, Whose presence was protection. Claudia, That we would. Shall I go fetch them ? Countess, My sweet simpleton, There is no need. I have not words to thank you, — But the fair duchess will regain her servant, Claudia her merry friend, without the loss Of one the smallest of those seedling pearls That fringe the royal mantle. He will soon Be here. This young and valiant gentleman, To whom he hath been an honor'd prisoner, I a most cherish'd and most grateful guest, Will tell you on what terms. Duchess, He brings with him THE SIEGE. ^27 A welcome in your praises. Gentle Sir, What are these terms ? Your prince can scarcely ask That which we should refuse. What must we give For our great captain's freedom ? Orlando. Gracious Madam, I am commanded to deliver him Without exchange or ransom. He is now With a small escort at the city gate ; He would remain there — a most needless form — Till I returned ; — a vain and needless form, But one, which well becomes the stainless honor Of that bright ornament of chivalry Count D'Osma. Duchess. Without ransom or exchange ? Orlando. Without exchange or ransom — free as air. The prince Lorenzo would not for those worlds Which roll unnumbered in the midnight heaven, By staking it 'gainst one of smaller note, Degrade your general's old and noble name ; But he being free, I have a grace to crave Q 2 22S DRAMATIC SCENES. Of your free bounty. You have here, fair duchess, A prisoner, whom my master fain would ransom With aught that he Duchess. Talk not of ransom. Sir ! Take him. I am too happy to repay Some slender part of this amazing debt Of courtesy and kindness to your prince. I knew not we had any prisoner Of note enough for ransom. Yesternight Some soldiers were brought in ; and a young boy Dumb as they thought Orlando. Deaf from his birth and mute. That is the boy, — Lorenzo's favourite page. Duchess. His page ! That poor mute boy Lorenzo's page, The bold and fortunate soldier, who, men say. Is rough as winds in March ! What can he do With such a helpless innocent ? Orlando. As the winds Of March do with the violet, lap it round, THE SIEGE. 229 And nurse it, with a rude protecting love, Into a stronger beauty, and a more Exceeding sweetness. Prince Lorenzo found, Five years ago, this young and tender boy Hanging, all drowned in dumb and innocent tears, Over his dying mother, who implored Protection for her child, with such a fond And passionate earnestness, as might have moved A heart of stone. He promised, and as yet Hath kept his promise. This is the first time Antonio and his master have been parted. Right glad will either be to see the other ; Right grateful to the fair and royal dame To whom they owe such joy. Duchess. . My Claudia, send To summon the mute page. — What is he like ? l^Exit Claudia. Orlando. A lovely boy — fair, slender, delicate. Almost as that young maid ; with curling hair Of such a brown as is the unsunned side 230 DRAMATIC SCENES. Of the ripe hazel nut ; a ready smile Instinct with meaning ; a quick varying blush. Which is his prettier speech ; a large blue eye Tenderly watching those whom best he loves, And giving back their looks, as the clear lake Reflects its shores. Duchess, To thee, too, he was dear ? Orlando. Oh ! very dear. So innocent, so helpless, So made for love and pity ! He was a sort Of living gentleness, and gentle thoughts Came with his presence. In the rough rude camp That peaceful spirit seemed a type of peace. As a small bit, no bigger than my hand, Of the exquisite blue sky, looks out and smiles From the dark stormy Heaven. For this we loved him. Duchess. For this you loved him, — that I well believe ; But surely, Sir, the bold ambitious soldier, His warlike master, loved hun not for this ? THE SIEGE. 231 Orlando. I cannot read men's hearts ; but surely, Madam, I think he did. Duchess. Can he love any thing ? Orlando. He must be made of stubborn stuff indeed, That did not give some kindness to that kind Affectionate boy. The most unloving heart That ever froze within a coat of mail Must have loved him. His pretty flattery, Unlike all other flatteries ; his apt And constant service ; and the stronger tie Of his entire dependence ; his so fond And firm reliance — speak, fair Countess D'Osma, Did not Lorenzo love him ? Countess. I am sure He loved him, Sir; as fondly as yourself. Enter Claudia. Duchess, Well, Claudia ? Claudia. They have sent to seek him, Madam 2S2 DRAMATIC SCENES. Duchess. How came he taken ? Orlando. He's a painter born, And, as we guess, caught by some loveher scene. Some bright effect of sunshine or of shade, Ventured too near the walls. He is absorbed In his delightful art ; beauty to him Is as a real goddess. Poor Antonio ! How richly will his short captivity Be paid when he shall see Did you not say You had no picture ? that she had refused ? Dear countess, I will beg for you the next Hebe or Flora that Antonio paints, And that will be her portrait. Countess. Fail me not. Orlando, Have I your highness' leave to seek the gateS; And bring Count D'Osma hither? I fear for him This long exposure to the noon-day sun. He will be better here. May I not say 'Tis your command ? He must obey me then. Duchess. It is my wish. By that time young Antonio THE SIEGE. 233 Will be prepared to meet you. I would offer An hostage for your safety, but I see You doubt us not ; — the generous and the brave, They know not what doubt means. — One of my chamber, Attend this gentleman ! — You will return In half an hour ? Orlando. In a less space, fair duchess, I trust to bring my captive to your feet. Countess. Now is your wager won ? Orlando. Lost. I have lost Two hearts. [Exit. Claudia, Oh what a gallant gentleman ! How noble and how stately, yet how gentle ! What a fine frankness, mix'd with deep respect And winning courtesy ! What piercing eyes — Such sudden laughter in them when he glanced Up at the countess ! What a gracious smile ! And then his voice — so sweet, so very kind, As if he loved all that he talked about ; — Oh he's the very creature of my dream ! 234: DRAMATIC SCENES. Countess. Thy dream again ! What was it, mistress mine ? Was he to wed thee ? Claudia. Me ! Oh no ! Wed me ! No, no : not me. Cannot you guess ? Wed me ! Duchess. Peace, dearest prattler ! Tell me, my own Laura, The story of thy absence : tell me all, All that befell thee in that hostile camp. But first What is he called ? Countess. Who call'd ? Duchess. The youth That left us even now. Is he of rank ? Countess. High born, not wealthy ; of the younger branch Of an illustrious house ; a gallant soldier, High in your cousin's councils and the love Of his brave army, is our kind Orlando. Claudia. Orlando ! What a pretty knightly name ! Duchess. Claudia, be still. Now,countess, forthy lale. THE SIEGE. 235 Countess. 'Tis summ'd up in two words. In yonder camp, Our hatred and our fear, nothing I found But noble kindness ; I have brought away Nothing but gratitude. He is so great, So good ! Duchess. Orlando ? Countess. Ay, and Prince Lorenzo. You know what fear possess'd me when I sought My husband, dead or living ; in that fear, Growing upon me even to senselessness, I reach'd the camp, and fainted. I revived To hear a well-known voice call upon Laura, His own dear Laura, and I found myself Supported on a kind and manly breast, Beside my husband's couch. Duchess. Orlando's ? Countess. Yes. We were his prisoners, — no — his honor'd guests, For so he loved to call us ; and as guests 2S6 DRAMATIC SCENES. Beloved and honor'd we have dwelt with him Even till this hour. Never was sympathy So touching and so true. He shared my watch Throughout the weary night, as soothingly As mothers tend a sickly babe ! he cheer'd The painful day with reading and with converse, And hopeful happy smiles. He and Antonio, The sweet mute page, they were to me, Bianca, Another dear Bianca and her Claudia. Can I say more ? Is not this gentleness Rare in a soldier ? Then the peaceful tastes That dwelt so strangely in that warlike tent, Flute and guitar, and books in many tongues, And drawings above all, free, masterly, Even as his dear Antonio's. Not a map Or soldier's plan but on some vacant edge Betray'd the artist's hand. Claudia. Oh what a man ! Countess, Has my sweet duchess then no news for me? THE SIEGE. 237 Has she not letters from the cardinal ? Duchess. Such as I blush to show thee. He would have me — Me born a princess ! — He would have me, Laura, Me trained by thee in whitest modesty And delicate reserve ! — He would have me Cast off all maiden pride, all womanly shame, And seek, invite, and win, if win I may, This young Lorenzo. I would sooner die. Countess. I would not have thee seek him, my Bianca, And yet Duchess. Yet what ? Countess. I wish thou wast his wife. Duchess. His wife ! That fierce rough man my enemy — His wife ! Countess. Thou art mistaken in him, dearest ! — Mantua must fall. Duchess, Why I can live unduchess'd. 23S DRAMATIC SCENES. Claudia and I were planning out to-day A happy cottage life — Countess. Pooh ! pooh I Duchess. Or thou May'st give us shelter. Countess, Never doubt of that. Duchess. Yet it might injure thee with the new duke (How strange that title sounds !) to harbour me. No ! a pale nun within some lowly cell, I may defy life's changes. Thou wilt go With me, my Claudia ? Oh, I still must have Something to love ! — the strong necessity Of woman's heart. Thou wilt go with me, dearest ? Claudia. Ay, to the end of the world. But my own duchess Will never be a nun. A happier fate Is hers. She will find some one better worth Her love than poor, poor Claudia — will she not ( A difierent love ! THE SIEGE. 239 Duchess. My little faithful girl, We'll to a nunnery. Countess — I know not Why I should ask the question — What was that Signor Orlando gave thee as ye parted ? Countess. A trifling toy. Duchess. Did I not hear him say — I scarce could catch the words — What was the toy ? Countess. A heart-shaped brooch of ruby, set with pearls. See, here. Claudia. The pretty trinket ! And he gave thee This for a keep-sake ? Countess. No. I won it of him In a fair wager. Claudia. About what? Do tell! Countess. We two were talking gravely yesternight Of beauty of complexion. He preferred Corregio's bright-haired angels, fair as light, Soft as a summer cloud. -^ I love, you know, The lovely brown ; and much I talked of eyes 240 DRAMATIC SCENES. Shining through long dark lashes ; clustering curls As dark as they, adorning and contrasting The ivory forehead ; much of dimpled cheeks Coloured like damask roses, and of lips Like parted coral ; till at last I wagered That ere another sunset he should own Himself my convert. He has lost his stake, As ye perceive. Duchess. And Claudia's glossy hair Is pale as undyed silk ! Claudia. He's here again. Enter Count D'Os:iiA, supported by Orlando and Melzi. Duchess. My gallant general, my faithful friend, Welcome ! — How weak you are ! Lie on this couch. Yes, Claudia, that is right — shake up the cushions. So ! so ! Lie down. Count D'Osma. My sweet and gentle mistress, This graciousness THE SIEGE. 2il Duchess. Hush ! hush ! Go to him, Laura. My Claudia, thy caresses overpower him. How pale he is! how faint! — And I the cause Of all this misery ! — Melzi, come to me. Claudia. Alas! how much he suffers! Think you, Sir, He will be well again ? Orlando. Oh, doubt it not ! This painful languor springs from loss of blood ; From this his first exertion ; most of all From the deep joy to be again at home, To meet his royal mistress, and to feel Her touching tenderness. Melzi. The crown and keys ? Duchess. Yes^yes. [Exit Melzi. Signor Orlando, we expect The mute page instantly. Orlando. I can but bless His absence, gracious lady. Duchess. Once again Accept my thanks. Countess, I see we still R 242 DRAMATIC SCENES. Must want our general ; he is too weak To venture forth to battle. Count d'Osma. Strong enough To fight for you, die for you. But, alas ! The sacrifice were vain. There is no hope. The strength of yonder army, and the skill Of its brave leader, and the gathering numbers Of bold allies that flock on every side ; — And we so few ! Orlando. I ought not to hear this. Duchess, Yes, most of all you ought. Signo Orlando, You are a generous enemy, — a friend ; — I cannot call him less to whom I owe Count d'Osma — and as friend or enemy Hear me ! I will no longer sacrifice My faithful subjects in this wasting war. My cousin, howsoe'er we have been trained To hate each other, is a gallant prince. Wise, valiant, fortunate, and fitter far THE SIEGE. 243 To reign in Mantua than I, a woman, A timorous, friendless, most defenceless woman ! Re-enter Melzi, with the crown, which he gives to the Duchess, and goes out. Bear thou to prince Lorenzo, to the Duke Of Mantua, this crown, the honoured crown Of our brave ancestors ; no braver man E'er wreathed his hard-won laurels with the gems That star its golden circlet. With it bear The city keys. Conjure him to forgive My bold defenders ; their fidelity To me is the best pledge of loyalty To their new master. Oh be they forgiven ! For me, I only ask to pass unharmed As far as Naples. — Grieve not, my good Lord ; Claudia and I shall be as happy there As two young linnets freshly let abroad From a fine gilded cage. — Nay, take the crown. Orlando. Duchess ! — Duchess. I am no duchess. To that title r2 244 DRAMATIC SCENES. Pll never answer more. Signer Orlando, I am Bianca di Gonzaga now ; I prythee call me so ; — and take this crown. Orlando. Not yet; not yet. Fair Comitess, hast thou said Lorenzo's message ? Countess. No. My own Bianca, Thou hast done rightly, wisely ; but this prince, This duke — no matter how, or when, or where — Hath seen and loves thee, and will little prize Thy crown without thyself. Duchess. It cannot be. Countess. 'Tis so. Duchess. And if it were, could I love him So long my foe, and now and evermore A rude blunt soldier ? I am no Hippolita, To be conquered into love. Countess, Thou know'st him not. Truly thou said'st that ye have both been trained In hatred. He thought thee, my trembling fawn, THE SIEGE. 245 A youthful Amazon ; — he's wiser now; — And thou, when thou shalt know him, wilt confess Thou too hast been mistaken. D'Osma, say, Is not the prince most amiable ? Count d'Osma. A hero. — Duchess, Why there it is ! I hate the very sound — A hero ! A mere fighter ! whose one virtue Is o'ertopped by the lion. Pardon me, My valiant friends ; I do beseech you, pardon ! You may, for heroes though ye be, you still Are something more. It chafes my very soul To hear all manly qualities comprized In that brute instinct, courage. If I wed, It shall be one who joins to a bold spirit A kind and tender heart ; one who can love All gentle things, books, music, nature, art ; O ne who But I shall never wed ! I pray you, Good signer, take the crown. Where is this page ? Countess. All that thou hast described is prince Lorenzo ; — 24:6 DRAMATIC SCENES. Will not his friend pleucl for him ? Orlando. On my knees I do entreat his fair obdurate cousin To hear him plead himself. Admit him once ! Duchess. Thou too ! — My Claudia, we will to a nunnery ; — Thou wilt go with me ? Claudia. To the death. How strange And sad this is ! my dream was different. Enter Melzi and Ajitonio. Melzi. Madam, the page. Duchess. We'll to a nunnery. Claudia. Look there, look there, dear duchess ! see he kneels Low at his master's feet ! Duchess. We'll to a nunnery. Claudia. Nay, but look at him ; he's so beautiful ; — He's risen now. And look ! look ! look ! dear duchess ! The poor rejected crown, — ^^look, he has placed it THE SIEGE. 247 Upon Orlando's head. How it becomes him ! — How Uke a prince he looks ! — Like ! 'Tis the prince ! The prince himself ! Countess, Dear ardent girl, it is. Orlando. Canst thou forgive me, cousin ? loveliest cousin, And most beloved ! — Say, canst thou pardon me ? There is thy crown, Bianca ! Thou art still The Duchess ! None but thou shall reign in Mantua. The sceptre is a bauble ; my ambition Soars higher ; I would call the hand that sways it My own, my very own. Speak, most beloved ! My lovely cousin^ speak ! Duchess. Is all this real ? Art thou Lorenzo 1 And dost thou indeed ? Do not deceive me. Orlando. Never, sweet, again, So help me love ! Claudia. Now is not Claudia's dream The very truth ? You'll see the cardinal 248 DRAMATIC SCENES. Will come to bless their union. Look ! the pag-e, The lovely page, how earnestly he gazes On our more lovely duchess ! — Look ! he joins Their hands ; — and now he kneels to kiss those hands United ; and she blushes, and he smiles. Heaven bless them both ! So ends our weary siege. THE BRIDAL EVE. A DRAMATIC SCENE. CHARACTERS. Lord Fitz-Alwyn. Hubert. Helen. Isabel. Margaret. Scene, A Lady's Aioartment in a Baronial Castle, THE BRIDAL EVE. Helen, Isabel, Margaret. Isabel. This is the bridal eve, and yet thy lady — Look how she sits on yonder couch, her head Bent like a snowdrop, her white clasped hands Listlessly hanging on her knee, as though No pulse beat in them. All the livelong day She hath not moved. Why Helen ! Helen Clifford ! What, not a word to thy poor Isabel — Thy cousin Isabel ? not one kind word When we shall part to-morrow ? — not one word ? Can this be the dear maid whom once I knew The merriest heart of merry Cumberland, Carolling her blithe songs from morn to eve 252 DRAMATIC SCENES. • As gaily as the gladsome birds that flew Around her summer bower ? Margaret. Didst thou ne'er see A caged linnet ? Isabel. Oh ! how pale she is, How changed, since o'er those northern hills she swept On her white Barbary steed, swift as the wind That waved her glossy tresses, crisp and curled Like the vine's tendrils, o'er that dimpled cheek Of roses, and those eyes of smiling light, And that clear brow ! All in her huntress green She might have seemed the youngest fairest nymph Of crescented Diana, such a glow Of beauty was about her. Margaret. Hast thou ne'er Seen a transplanted flower — seen how it droops And fades and dies ? Your southern gardens ill Suit the wild heath-bell. She hath never known Sorrow till now. Now, lady, she hath lost Her home, her father. THE BRIDAL EVE. 253 Isabel. Is not my home hers ? And my kind father ? Margaret. Ay, but she must leave Even this adopted home, and wed Isabel. The pride Of English chivalry ! her long betrothed And oh, so worthy ; bravest in the field, Gayest at revel, kindest every where, Is Lord Fitz-Alwyn. Margaret. Grant that it be so, Unless she loved him Isabel. She must love him. Margaret. Look ! The very casket, that last night he laid At Helen's feet, still at her feet it lies, Neglected, overthrown. The oaken floor Is bright with jewelry, stringed amethysts, Rubies and sapphires, linked with massy gold — Helen. Chains ! chains ! all chains ! Isabel. Nay, sweetest coz, see here 254 DRAMATIC SCENES. This diadem of orient pearl — how well Thy raven curls become it ! how it sits Amid the ringlets, with a queenly pride A maiden modesty ! Oh fling it not Aside ! Helen. Give me the wild wood coronal Of living pearls, fresh from the fragrant thorn And diamonded with dew ! Dost thou remember, Margaret, the garland of the Queen of May, When poor — What's that ? Isabel. 'Tis but the distant sound Of music at the banquet. They feast high. Helen. Hark ! hark ! This comes not from the hall. 'Tis here Beneath the casement. Margaret, hark ! a harp ! A northern harp ! Margaret, Beshrew these narrow bars ! I cannot see the minstrel, Helen. Hush ! he sings. THE BRIDAL EVE. 255 Song (tvithout). High o*er the baron's castle tall Rich banners float, with heavy fall, And light and song, in mingling tide, Pour forth to hail the lovely bride. Yet, lady, still the birchen tree Waves o'er the cottage on the lea ; The babbling stream runs bright and fair, — The love-star of the west shines there. Isabel. How breathlessly she listens ! See, she flings Backward her ringleted and glossy hair, Lest a loose curl might intercept the sound Of that sweet music. Margaret, hast thou heard The strain before ? Margaret, The air, but not the words. Song (without), Mail'd warders pace o'er keep and tower, Gay maidens deck the lady's bower ; 256 DRAMATIC SCENES. Page, Squire, and knight, a princely train. Wait duteous at her bridle rein. Yet in that cot the milk-white hound, The favourite falcon still are found ; And one more fond, more true than they, Born to adore and to obey. Isabel. 'Tis a strange bridal song ; but it hath waked The statue into life. Look, how the blood Mounts in her cheek I Margaret. Hush ! it begins again. Song (without J. The coronet of jewels rare Shines proudly o'er her face so fair ; And titles high, and higher name Fitz-Alwyn's lovely bride may claim. And yet the wreath of hawthorn bough Once lightlier press'd that snowy brow ; , And hearts that wither now were gay When she was but the Queen of May. THE BRIDAL EVE. 257 Isabel. 'Tis over now. That was the final close. Why, Helen, wherefore dost thou wave thy hand From the barr'd casement ? Wherefore turn away With thy fine form so raised, so firm a step, So high a brow, and eyes that in their light Bear such command ? Helen. Margaret, tell Lord Fitz-Alwyn That I entreat his presence. Margaret, Dearest lady Helen. Question me not, but go. \^Exit Margaret. So ! will Fitz-Alwyn, Think'st thou, obey the call ? Isabel. Doubt not of that. Thou hast been coyer than the fresh-caged bird. To which poor Margaret likened thee ; he scarce Hath seen thee, Helen — scarce hath heard thy voice. Re-enter Margaret ivith Lord Fitz-Alwyn. What, here already ? Come upon a wish ! 258 DRAMATIC SCENES. Fitz-Alwyn. I was not far to seek. Hast thou ne'er heard How wakeful misers haunt the secret spot Where their heart hes, their gold ? Even so lurked I Around my treasure, waiting but to hear A distant footfall, or a clapping door, Or pleasant rustling of a silken robe, Or aught that told of her. What would fair Helen Of her true knight ? Isabel, Sit down beside us here She best can speak her will. Helen. I would but ask him To listen to a simple tale of one More simple, a poor northern maid, 'Tis short ; 'Twill not detain thee long. Fitz-Alwyn. Oh make it long, That I may listen ! Could'st thou know the joy To sit and hear thee ! Oh prolong the tale ! Speak but till I be weary ! Isabel. Now, dear Helen ! THE BRIDAL EVE. 259 Helen. There dwelt a knight among the Cumbrian hills With one young daughter — an old wealthy knight, Who had no joy but in the chase, small joy Even in the chase without her. So she grew The hardiest mountain-nymph that ever braved The summer sun, the winter wind. Poor child ! She had no mother, none to teach the craft Of female mysteries — the lute, the loom, The needle — them she knew not. All her lore Was of the beauty of the earth and sky. The green hills and the bosky vales, the clear And gushing waters, and the shifting forms Of clouds. All her companions were the dear Mute partners of her sports — how speaking they Amidst their speechlessness ! Her Barbary steed With his bright arching neck, curved up to meet Her fondling hand ; her greyhound, playfuUest Of happy creatures, of a richer white, Like marble touched by the sun, leaping and bounding If he but heard her voice ; her falcon, proud s 2 2G0 DRAMATIC SCENES. To sit upon her wrist. She loved them all. — I dally with my tale and weary thee. Fitz-Alioyn. Speak on. Thy voice hath in it such a charm As the clear warblings of the bird of song, The nightingale. Her varied notes we hear All in themselves unlike, yet most unlike All other melody, till every gush Of liquid sound seems to our ravished souls Too brief. Speak on. Isabel Had she no comrade ? Helen, One— Her own dear father — and — Fitz-Alwyn. Speak on. Helen. Hard by Dwelt a lone widow, poor, but gently born, And she too had one child. Fitz-Alwyn. A daughter? Helen. No. He was some two years older than the maid, THE BRIDAL EVE. 261 And loved like her the chase, or rather loved Nature and beauty — the green wood, the show Of hound and huntsman 'midst the forest glades, The bright and moving picture. For the chase He was too gentle. I have seen — 'twas said He had been seen to weep when the poor stag, Panting and quivering, already dead Almost with fear and toil, hath fallen. Yet still He loved the Barbary steed, the milk-white hound, The bright- eyed falcon. Ever at their side Was Hubert Knowles. FitZ'Alwyn. And the young maid ? Loved she One of so soft a mould ? Helen. From earliest youth, From earliest childhood, they were playmates, friends. All that she knew of book or song was learnt Of Hubert in that low-roofed cot, where dwelt His smiling mother. There, beneath the shade Of the light fragrant birch and to the sound Of running waters, they— I speak of them, 262 DRAMATIC SCENES. The mountain maid and the fond mother — oft Would sit for hours, Hstening his minstrel lay And marking how the poet's fire lit up That mild blue eye, and kindled that pale cheek Embrowned with a sweet sunniness, and raised The veins on his white brow, and seemed to swell His slender form into a nobleness Of beauty ; till, at length, with head flung back, And chest dilating, the forgotten harp Dropt silent from his hands, and song was lost In the wild crowd of images that pressed On his awakened fancy. Fitz-Ahvyn. Did the maid Wed the young minstrel ? Helen, No : she was betrothed. Fitz-Ahvyn. Alas! I thought so; — was betrothed to one Unworthy ? Helen, Oh, no, no ; to one too good- Too great, too noble ! THE BRIDAL EVE. 2Go Fitz-Ahvyn. One whom she loved not ? Helen. One whom she knew not, therefore loved not. Love Is born of love. Fitz-Alwyn. And Hubert? Helen. He spake not ; No, not a word ! She had broad lands, and he Was poor — Fitz-Alwyn. Why dost thou pause? Helen. Scarcely she knew, Till they were parted, what her own heart meant When it so throbbed. Fitz-Alwyn. Pry thee say on. Helen. Oh, look not So searchingly upon me ! Her dear father Died, and her noble wooer from the wars Came crowned with honour ; and her guardian sought The lonely orphan in her northern hall. And brought her to his castle. Fitz-Ahvyn. Well! ^64 DRAMATIC SCENES. Helen. She met Him, her betrothed ; and she would fain have told— But fear, and awe, and maiden shame, and doubt If Hubert loved, for never till — Margaret. Hark ! Hark ! Again the sweet harp of the north. Song (without). Bless thee ! I may no longer stay, No longer bid thee think on me ; I cannot 'bide thy bridal day — But, Helen, I go blessing thee. Bless thee ! no vow of thine is broke ; I asked not thy dear love for me, Though tears and sighs and blushes spoke- Yet, Helen, I go blessing thee. Bless thee ! yet do not quite forget — Oh, sometimes, sometimes pity me ! My sun of life is early set — But, Helen, I die blessing thee ! THE BRIDAL EVE. 265 Helen, Alas ! alas ! Dost hear him ? Fitz-Alwyn, Margaret, seek This harper ; bring him hither. We must check His boldness. [Exit Margaret. Tremble not, my loveliest bride, But listen. I have heard thy simple tale Of a fair maiden ; now do thou hear mine Of a rough soldier. A young warrior once Rescued an aged knight, brave to a fault, From out the enemy's ranks. Too grateful he For common service ; he had one bright gem Fit for an emperor's crown, — but only one,— Yet that he offered, and the warrior took. Helen. What was the gem ? Fitz-Alwijn. A girl ! a cherub girl! She was a child —but such a child ! — so full Of life and beauty ! sun, and wind, and dew Had formed her like gay flowers, or gayer birds. Or the light brilliant butterfly, that lives h\ the air. She was all smiles. And he went forth 26G DRAMATIC SCENES. To battle with that vision, as a dream Of gladness round him. Often on the watch Or in the trench before a leaguered town, Or in the pause which weighs upon the soul After the day of battle, would that form. In all its witchery, float around his steps, Around his heart. Years passed, and as he saw The laughing girls of France, he'd pause and say, So tall must she be now. — This tale of mine Troubles thee, sweet one. Helen. Oh, go on, my lord ! Prythee go on ! How little she deserved, How little deemed — Go on. Fitz-Alivyn, At length came peace, And our rude warrior turned him to his home And his betrothed bride. His first kind friend, The good old knight, was dead ; but he found friends In all around her. She alone — how fair How beautiful she was ! lier charms outran Memory and fancy ; — but so pale, so sad, THE BRIDAL EVE. 267 With head averted and with downcast eyes And shivering hands that shrank from his, and speech Short and unfrequent, and more chiUing cold Than silence — Helen, from the hour we met, Thy thoughts have injured me. I was thy friend, Why treat me as thy tyrant ? Why delay The story of thy love ? Why tremble thus ? Why hide thy beauteous face ? Heleyi. Oh, spare me now, Fitz-Alwyn ! Spare me ! I have told thee all. FitZ'Alivyn. Ay ; but too late. The bridal hour is fixed ; The guests are bidden ; the huge tables groan Already with the banquet ; harp and song Already fill the halls ; already flowers Bestrew the path where thou and thy fair maids Shall tread ; already those fair maids have donned Their smiles and blushes. Lady Isabel, Say, is it not too late ? Must she not wed To-morrow ? 268 DRAMATIC SCENES. Helen. Oh, no ! no ! In mercy no ! Re-enter Margaret with Hubert. Fitz-Alwyn. This is thy bridal eve. Approach, young Sir ! Helen— my Helen— for the first, last time, I dare to call thee so. — Look up, dear maid ! Thou hast done rightly, wisely, kindly, Helen, By me, by all. Nay, draw not back thy hand ; 1 will but seal it with one parting kiss. — Now take it, Hubert Knowles ! thou hast her heart ; They shall not be divided. She is thine. THE CAPTIVE. A DRAMATIC SCENE. CHARACTERS. Alberto, an usurper of the throne of Sicily. Theodore, a boy of fifteen, the rightful King. Julia, a girl of the same age, Alberto's daughter. Scene, A gloomy Chamber in a Gothic Castle in Messina* THE CAPTIVE. Enter Alberto and Theodore. Alberto. Enter and fear not, trembler. Thou shalt live. Theodore. Ay, that I feared. Alberto, Dost hear me, boy ? I say That thou shalt live. Theodore. I feared so. Alberto. Would'st thou die ? Theodore. If it pleased Heaven, most willingly. I know That I'm a prisoner. I shall never walk In the sun's blessed light, or feel the touch Of the free air, or hear the summer brook All idly babbling to the moon, or taste 272 DRAMATIC SCENES. The morning breath of flowers. The thousand charms Which make in our Sicihan Isle mere life A thrilling' pleasantness, which send a glow Through the poorest serf that tills the happy soil — I am shut out from all. This is my tomb. Uncle, be merciful ! I do not ask My throne again — Reign ! reign ! I have forgot That I was once a King. But let me bide In some small woodland cottage, where green leaves May wave around me, and cool breezes kiss My brow. Keep me not in a dungeon, uncle. Or this dark gloomy chamber. Let me dwell In some wild forest. I'll not breathe a word That might be dangerous. No ! not to the birds My songsters, or the fawns my playmates, uncle ; Thou ne'er shalt hear of me again, Alberto. Boy ! boy ! Cling not about me thus ! Theodore, Thou wilt have mercy ! Thy heart is softening. THE CArXIVE. 273 Alberto, 'Tis too late. — To reign, And he at liberty ! I am a child Myself, that won by this child's gentleness I seemed to waver. Boy, thy fate is fixed ; Thyself hast said it. Thou'rt a prisoner, And for thy whole life long ; a caged bird. Be wiser than the feathered fool that beats His wings against the wire. Thou shalt have all Thy heart can ask, save freedom, and that never! I tell thee so in love, and not in hate ; For I would root out hope and fear, and plant Patience in thy young soul. Theodore. And Julia? Alberto, Her Thou ne'er must see again. Theodore, Never ! Is she A prisoner too ? Not once to say farewell ! Alas ! alas ! that bauble of a crown, How it makes kind hearts cruel ! Thou wait once In all my little griefs my comforter, ^74 DRAMATIC SCENES. And now — Not see my cousin Julia once ! Mine own dear cousin Julia ! Let me see her Once, only once ! — only to catch one sound Of that sweet voice, and on that whitest hand Drop one fond tear, and steal but one of the bright And wavy ringlets from her brow, and pray That Heaven may bless her. — Let me see her once, But once, and then I'll walk back to my prison. And dream away this winter of a life, As a silly dormouse in his Christmas nest Sleeps through his six months' night. Turn not away ! Wast thou born pitiless ? Alberto. No. 1 have quelled That dangerous softness. Pretty boy, farewell ! Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee. [Exit. Theodore. Content! Oh mockery of grief ! Content! Was't not enough to take away my crown, To mew me up here in a living tomb, Cut off from every human tie, from thee. THE CAPTIVE. 275 Julia, my cousin Julia ; but my jailor Must bid me be content ! Would I were dead ! Forgive me, Heaven, for my impatience ! I will take better thoughts. 'Tis but to fancy This room a quiet hermitage, and pray As hermits use through the long silent hours. T shall be innocent. Sure, he's a friend That shuts me out from sin. Did he not call me A caged bird ? I've seen one prune himself. And hop from perch to perch, and chirp and sing Merrily ! Happy fool, it had forgot Blithe liberty ! But man, though he should drag A captive's heavy chain, even till he starts To hear his own sad voice, cannot forget. He wants that blessed gift. — Is not to-day The gay procession of the vintagers Ere they begin their annual toil ? A relic Of the old heathen rites ! Last year I saw it ; 'Twas a fair pageant ; one that might have graced The famous Grecian day, with its long line T 2 276 DRAMATIC SCENES. Of maidens tripping under the light load Of grape-piled baskets on their heads, and youths With pipes timing their steps, and younger girls And rosy boys dragging the struggling goats, By flow'ry garlands. Such procession well Had honour'd the god Bacchus. She was there, And in her innocent gaiety led on The virgin troop, distinguish'd but by grace Unrivall'd, and a wreath of brightest flowers That crown'd her brimming basket. How she sway'd Her pretty head to the soft double flute, Whilst ever as she bent, the coronal Seem'd like to fall, till with a smiling toss She flung it up again, and danced along With such an airiness, as if her step Belong'd not to dull earth. Oh, loveliest maid, Must I ne'er see thee more ! Enter Julia, through a secret door. Who's there ? How cam'st thou ? THE CAPTIVE. 277 Art thou indeed my cousin Julia ? Is't Thyself, thy living self ? I cannot trust My sight. Julia (giving him her hand). Dost doubt me now ? Theodore, No. But when first I saw thee standing with thy pitying eyes Fix'd on thy face, thou seem'dst an angel ! Say How cam'st thou here ? Julia, He, — I'll not call him father — He, who imprisoned thee, forgot, or knew not. The secret passage, that in one long chain Links all the western chambers. Constance mark'd The guarded door. Follow me. Theodore. Where ? Julia. To freedom ! To happiness ! Theodore. Now, blessings on thy head ! Did I not say thou wast an Angel ? Freedom ! Ay, that is happiness. A whole life's service Were over poor to pay this debt. 1278 DRAMATIC SCENES. Julia, We stay Too long. Come with me. Theodore. But to leave thee, sweetest, — Perchance in danger, — for should he suspect — No ! I'll stay here, — my very inmost soul Thanks thee, my kindest cousin. But I'll stay, I'll not awaken his unnatural hate 'Gainst thee. He loves thee — but he loved me once — And mated with ambition, even his child, His only child, were nothing. I'll stay here, In my lone prison. Think of me as one Freed from a cumbrous load of state and care, Held to the world but by the undying love That knits my soul to thine. Go and be happy. And in thy bliss shall I be blest. We still Shall breathe the same air, Julia. I may catch From out my window a short stolen glance Of thy fair form ; may hear, when distant doors Shall chance to open, a brief passing sound Of thy dear voice ; and sometimes thou may'st glide THE CAPTIVE. 279 Even to this gloomy chamber, bringing light, And life, and joy. A moment since I pined For liberty. Now I would rather dwell In a deep dungeon, where such visions come, Than fill a throne without them. Thou wilt deign To visit the poor captive, wilt thou not ? Oh, dearest, to be banished from thy sight Were worse than death. Thou'lt come again ? But now Away ! I fear the king. Julia. He whom thou call'st such Is busy at the council. Theodore, In mercy follow me ! I too shall share Thy flight. Theodore. Thou ! Thou ! Oh sweetest, dearest, best ! I stand as in a dream. — Thou go with me ! Whither ? and wherefore ? Julia. Question not ; but come. There is a Spanish ship in harbour here, With her sails spread for instant voyage. My Constance And her bold captain are betroth'd. He waits SSO DRAMATIC SCENES. With sure disguises, and hath promised us A safe and pleasant home in fair Castile. A mountain hut close by a gushing spring, Where the huge cork trees fling their heavy shade O'er herds and flocks ; and we shall lead a calm And happy pastoral life ; a shepherd thou With pipe and crook, and I a cottage maid, A careful housewife. Thou shalt see how soon I'll learn the rustic craft, to milk my ewes Or press the snowy curd, or haply mould The richer cheese. Shalt thou not like, dear cousin, To be a shepherd on the downy hills, Tending thy flock all day, and I to bring Water and country cates, an homely meal, And sing and prattle at thy side, most like A mountain bee ? I'll wager, Theodore, I prove the thriftier peasant. Theodore, But to bend thee To poor and servile toil — Julia, Poor ! I have here THE CAPTIVE. 281 Jewels to buy an earldom. See ! a sword too, To guard us on the way. Take it. Dear cousin, We waste the hour. Theodore. My Julia, tempt me not To selfish and ungrateful sin. The saints May witness for me, that I ever loathed Pomp and its slavery. The lot thou ofFerest Hath been the vision of my dreamy hours All my life long. But thou so proudly reared So delicately served, — thou born a princess, And nurtured like a queen, how could'st thou bear The peasant's lowly lot ? — Had I the crown That once prest my young brow — had I a throne To share with thee, my fairest — but an exile — A houseless fugitive, — Alas ! Alas ! Tempt me no more, sweet maiden ! Stay and reign In thine own Sicilv. Julia. . I'll stay and die, Since thou dost spurn me from thee. Fare thee well ! Yet, in thy calmer thoughts, — if thou should'st think 282 DRAMATIC SCENES. Again on tliy poor friend — Oh, deem her not Bold or unmaidenly ! We lived and loved As brother and as sister. — Theodore. Far, far dearer ! Julia. And as a sister in our mutual grief I came to thee. Oh, let us fly, dear cousin ! In pity, let us fly ! My cruel father — Theodore. Cruel to thee ? — to thee ! Julia. Alas, to bind The subtle traitor Lanza to his cause. He oflers up his child. Another day, And I must wed. Theodore. Give me the sword. Wed ! Cousin, I'll fly with thee to the end of the earth. Wed Lanza ! Wed any man ! He must fight well that wins thee, Boy though I be, my Julia ! Haste thee, sweet. Each moment's worth an age. Away ! Away ! Julia. Heaven speed our steps ! Theodore. Away ! [Exeunt. THE MASQUE OF THE SEASONS, FROM FIESCO AND DORIA, AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY. CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY. GlACOMO, Isabella, DORIA, FlESCO, Ladies and Gentlemen. CHARACTERS OF THE MASQUE. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Scene, A Hall in the Fiesco Palace in Genoa. THE MASQUE OF THE SEASONS. Giacomo. Where is Fiesco now ? Isabella, Oh you should see him ! Celia is showing him her gay saloon Sparkling with lamps and flowers, and her quaint masque Of country lasses, cunningly prankt out With rustic finery. The little thief Hath stolen all my roses — all save this — To deck the pretty damsel she calls spring. And there is she turning them round and round To be admired ; and there are they, all blushes. Curtsying with coy and shamefaced bashfulness, Yet full of a strange joy ; and there is he 2S6 DRAMATIC SCENES. Dropping kind words and kinder smi'es about, Delighting and delighted : We must join them. THE MASQUE. Enter Spring. Sprincj. Room for the jocund queen of new-born flowers ! Bathed in hght fragrant airs and sunny showers I come. Beneath my steps the grass is set With violets, cowslips, daffodils, all wet With freshest dew as any crystal clear. The youth, the smile, the music of the year Am I. Who loves not Spring ? Gay songs of birds Tell my delights, and rough uncouthest words Of shepherds. Fairest ladies here are posies Of crisp curled hyacinths, pale maiden roses, And bright anemonies of richer dyes Than rubies, amethysts, or azure eyes Of sapphires. Summer! hasten leafy queen ! And Autumn help to bind my garlands sheen ! THE MASQUE OF THE SEASONS. 287 Enter Summer. Summer. In a green nook, whose mossy bed receives Shade from my own unnumbered world of leaves, I heard a voice call Summer. Spring, Hast thou not Brought flowery tribute ? To thy favourite grot I sent my deftest, trustiest messenger, A dappled butterfly, whose pinions whir Like thy mailed beetle's. He was charged to say That great Doria would be here to-day Did not that rouse thee? Summer. Yes ; his name hath won To my deep solitudes, where scarce the sun Can pierce the heavy umbrage. The cool places To which the sweltering noon the wild deer chases ; The sheltered pools, which oft the swallows winglet Skims, or where lazily her darker ringlet Some Naiad floating in her beauty laves ; The little bubbling springs, whose tiny waves 288 DRAMATIC SCENES. Do murmur gently round old pollard trees, Mingling their music with the stir of bees ; All these are mine : mine the wild forest glade Where the bright sun comes flickering through the shade, Gilding the turfy wood-walks ; and his name Is wafted through them with an odorous fame, Balm breathing. Take my tribute. Strawberries bred In shrubby dingles ; cherries round and red. And flowers that love the sun. Spring. Sweet flowers are thine, Carnation, pink, acacia, jessamine. With coral budded myrtle which discloses White pearly blossoms, and perfumed musk-roses. Enter Autumn. Autumn. Fair queens of leaves and flowers give way to me, To Autumn and his fruits. Do you not see How I am laden ? Corn and grapes are here, And olives. Of the riches of the year THE MASQUE OF THE SEASONS. SS9 I am the joyful gatherer. Merry nights Have I at harvest time, and rare deUghts When the brown vintagers beneath the trees Dance, and drink in the sunset and the breeze. And I have brought young tendrils of the vine Amidst your gayer garlands to entwine For great Doria. Enter Winter. Spring. Ah ! what form is this ? Stern Winter hence ! Come not to mar our bliss W^ith frosts and tempests. Icy season hence ! See Summer sickens at thy influence, And I can feel my coronet withering. Winter. Hence then thyself, fair, dainty, delicate thing ! Light fluttering playmate of the infant loves, Mistress of butterflies and turtle doves, Hence ! and bear with thee that gay blooming toy. To a fair girl from an enamoured boy 290 DRAMATIC SCENES. Fit homage, not for heroes. In this form Thou hail'st a friend, Doria ! The wild storm The raging of the elements, the wave That Winter flings aloft, are to the brave A victory and a glory. Thou hast breasted My billows, mountain-high and foamy crested, And vanquished them. And I can guerdon thee, I, barren Winter, from the unfading tree To valour consecrate. This laurel crown Wear ! as it clips thy temples, thy renown Will cast upon its shining leaves a light Ineffable. Approach, ye Seasons bright, With gifts and garlands ; let us offer here The blended homage of the circling year. SONNETS. u 2 SONNETS. 29S I. WRITTEN IN A BLANK-PAPER BOOK GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A FRIEND. My little book, as o'er thy page so white, With half-closed eyes in idlest mood I lean, Whose is the form that rises still between Thy page and me, — a vision of delight ? Look on those eyes by the bright soul made bright ; Those curls, which who Antinous' bust hath seen Hath loved ; that shape which might beseem a queen ; That blush of purity ; that smile of light. 'Tis she ! my little book dost thou not own Thy mistress ? She it is, the only she ! Dost thou not listen for the one sweet tone Of her unrivalled voice ? Dost thou not see Her look of love, for whose dear sake alone, My little book, thou art so dear to me ? 20i< SONNETS. II. ON MRS IIOFLAND'S PICTURE OF JERUSALEM AT THE TIME OF THE CRUCIITXION. Jerusdlem ! and at the fatal hour ! No need of dull and frivolous question here ! No need of human agents to make clear The most tremendous act of human power ! The distant cross ; the rent and falling tower ; The opening grave?, from which the dead uprear Their buried forms ; the elemental fear Where horrid light and horrid darkness lower ; All tell the holy tale : the mystery And solace of our souls. Awe- struck we gaze On that so mute yet eloquent history! Awe-struck and sad at length our eyes we raise To go; — yet oft return that scene to see Too full of the great theme to think of praise. SONNETS. 295 III. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. Blossom that lov'st on shadowy banks to lie, Gemming the deep rank grass with flowers so blue, That the pure turquoise matched with their rich hue Pales, fades, and dims ; so exquisite a dye, That scarce the brightness of the Autumn sky, Which sleeps upon the bosom of the stream, On whose fringed margent thy star-flowerets gleam In its clear azure with thy tints may vie ; Shade-loving flower, I love thee ! not alone That thou dost haunt the greenest coolest spot, For ever, by the tufted alder thrown. Or arching hazel, or vine mantled cot, But that thy very name hath a sweet tone Of parting tenderness — Forget me not ! 296 SONNETS. IV. TO MR. HENRY RICHARDSON, ON HIS PERFORMANCE OF ADMETUS IN THE ALCESTIS OF EURIPIDES, AS REPRESENTED IN THE ORIGINAL GREEK AT READING SCHOOL. October, 1824. For US, on whose sealed ear the classic strain Of Athens' tenderest bard would idly fall As instrumental music, or the call Of wordless nightingales, for us again 1 thank thee, wondrous boy ! that not in vain The scene hath overpast which held in thrall Milton * and Wordsworth, mightiest names of all Living or dead that haunt the Muses' fane ! * Milton's allusion to the Alcestis in the sonnet on his wife is well known. Mr. Wordsworth in his Laodamia has the following exquisite lines on the same subject. " Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis a reanimated corse, Given back to dwell on earth in beauty's bloom?" SONNETS. 297 Thy genius was a language ; voice and look, Gesture and stillness the deep mystery Of a strong grief unveiled. As lightnings dart Their quivering brightness o'er the world, each nook Illumining and thrilling, so from thee Burst the storm-cloud of passion on the heart. 2DS SONNETS. V. WRITTEN JULY, 1824. How oft amid the heaped and bedded hay, Under the oak's broad shadow deep and strong, Have we sate Hstening to the noonday song (If song it were monotonously gay) Which crept along the field, the summer lay Of the grasshopper. Summer is come in pride Of fruit and flower, garlanded as a bride, And crowned with corn, and graced with length of day. But cold is come with her. We sit not now Listening that merry music of the earth Like Ariel " beneath the blossomed bough ;" But all for chillness round the social hearth We cluster. — Hark ! — a note of kindred mirth Echoes ! — Oh, wintery cricket, welcome thou ! SONNETS. 299 VI. TO MY MOTHER SLEEPING. Sleep on, my mother ! sweet and innocent dreams Attend thee, best and dearest ! Dreams that gild Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure filled And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems, — Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams, Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build And calmest thoughts, like violets distilled. Their fragrance mingle with bright wisdom's beams. Sleep on, my mother ! not the lily's bell So sweet ; not the enamoured west-wind's sighs That shake the dew-drop from her snowy ceil So gentle ; not that dew-drop ere it flies So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee to dwell Oh model most beloved of good and wise ! eiOO SONNETS. VIL ON A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Look where she sits in languid loveliness, Her feet upgathered, and her turban*d brow Bent o'er her hand, her robe in ample flow Disparted ! Look in attitude and dress She sits and seems an Eastern Sultaness ! And music is about her, and the glow Of young fair faces, and sweet voices go Forth at her call, and all about her press. But no Sultana she ! As in a book In that fine form and lovely brow we trace Divinest purity, and the bright look Of genius. Much is she in mind and face Like the fair blossom of some woodland nook The wind-flower*, delicate and full of grace. * The Ilampoliirc name of the wood-aucmone. SONNETS. 301 VIII. TO MISS PORDEN*, ON HER POEM OF C(EUR DE LION. Proudly thy sex may claim thee, young and fan- And lofty poetess ! proudly may tell How thou hast sung the arms invincible Of him the lion-hearted, in the snare Of Austria, as amid the sultry glare Of Palestine, triumphant ; or the spell Of poor Maimonne ; or the thoughts that swell When suddenly the old remembered air Rings from the harp of Blondel ; or the bright -And gorgeous train of England's chivalry ; Or, worthy of his kingly foe, the might Of paynim Saladin. Oh, proud of thee Is woman ! proud of thy bold muse's flight ! Proud of thy gentle spirit's purity. * My late dear and lamented friend Mrs. Franckliu. 302 SONNETS. IX. TO MR. HAYDON, ON A STUDY FROM NATURE. " Tears in the eyes and on the lips a sigh !" Haydon ! the great, the beautiful, the bold, Thy wisdom's king, thy mercy's God unfold, There art and genius blend in union high. But this is of the soul. The majesty Of grief is here, grief cast in such a mould As Niobe of yore. The tale is told All at a glance — A childless mother I ! The tale is told : — but who can e'er forget That e'er hath seen that visage of despair ! With unaccustom'd tears Our cheeks are wet ; Heavy our hearts with unaccounted care ; Upon our thoughts it presses like a debt ; We close our eyes in vain — that face is there ! SONNETS. 303 X. ENGLEFIELD HOUSE : THE SEAT OF R. BENYON DE BEAUVOIR, ESQ. NEAR READING. There is a pride, as of an elder day About thee, Englefield ! midway thy steep And wood-crowned eminence, where round thee sweep Green flowery lawns, trees in the fresh array Of summer, meadows with the close-piled hay Studded, blue waters that do seem to creep All listlessly for heat, and cots that sleep r the sunshine. How thou tower'st above the gay And lovely landscape, in the majesty Of thy old beauty ! Even those mansions bright, That pretty town, that gothic chapelry * With front and pinnacle so rich and light. Seem all as toys and costly pageantry Made but for thy proud halls and their delight. * The new Church at Theale, a beautiful specimen of modern Gothic. 30 1- SONNETS. XI. NEW YEAR'S DAY. 1819. TO MRS. DICKINSON. Banquet and song, and dance and revelry ! — Auspicious year born in so fair a light Of gaiety and beauty ! happy night Sacred to social pleasure, and to thee Its dear dispenser, of festivity The festive queen, the moving spirit bright Of music and the dance, of all delight The gentle mistress, bountiful and free. Oh happy night ! and oh succeeding day Far happier ! when *mid converse and repose Handel's sweet strains came sweetened, and the lay Divine of that old Florentine arose, Dante, and Genius flung his torch-like ray O'er the dark tale of Ugolino's woes. SONNETS. 305 XH. ON TWO OF MR. HOFLAND'S LANDSCAPES. A migRty power is in that roaring main Broken into huge and foamy waves, which knock Against yon mass of battlemented rock Dark with storm-laden cloud, and wind-tost rain. A lovely power is in that sunny plain Where in their beauty the clear waters sleep, Fringed in by tender grass, or idly creep Where the close tufted banks their course restrain. Oh Painter of the elements ! to thee Alike the gentle or tempestuous hour : The throes and heavings of the wintery sea, Whilst earth, and sky, and storm, and darkness, lour ; Or the sweet sunshine brooding peacefully O'er wandering rivulet and summer bower. X 80G SONNETS. XIII. ON HEARING MR. TALFOURD PLEAD IN THE ASSIZE- HALL AT READING, ON HIS FIRST CIRCUIT, March 1821. Wherefore this stir ? 'Tis but a common cause Of Cottage plunder : yet in every eye Sits expectation ; — murmuring whispers fly Along the crowded court; — and then a pause ; — And then a clear crisp voice invokes the laws, With such a full and rapid mastery Of sound and sense, such nice propriety, Such pure and perfect taste, that scarce the applause Can be to low triumphant words chained down Or more triumphant smiles. Yes, this is he. The young and eloquent spirit whose renown Makes proud his birth-place ! a high destiny Is his ; to climb to honour's palmy crown By the strait path of truth and honesty. SONNETS. rj()7 XIV. THE FISHING-SEAT, WHITEKNIGHTS.* There is a sweet according harmony In this fair scene : this quaintly fluted bower, These sloping banks with tree and shrub and flower Bedecked, and these pure waters, where the sky In its deep blueness shines so peacefully ; Shines all unbroken, save with sudden light When some proud swan majestically bright Flashes her snowy beauty on the eye ; Shines all unbroken, save with sudden shade When from the delicate birch a dewy tear The west-wind brushes. Even the bee's blithe trade, The lark's clear carols,, sound too loudly here ; A spot it is for far-off music made, Stillness and rest — a smaller Windermere. X 2 808 SONNETS. XV. TO A FRIEND ON HER BIRTH-DAY. This is the day sacred to love and mirth And tender wishes ; this the favoured day (Sweet superstition !) when the artless lay Is welcomed, and the token little worth, And the fond vows, which live and have their birth In the affectionate heart ; a holiday It is, for good and gentle, fair and gay, My lovely Jane, it gave thee to the earth. And thou hast trodden life's path with a wise glee, Maid of the laughing eye ! Were I the Queen Of that so famous land of Faery Where quaintest spirits weave their spells unseen. No better benison I'd pour on thee Than to be happy still as thou hast been. SONNETS. 309 XVI. ON LEAVING A FAVOURITE PICTURE. Young world of peace and loveliness farewell ! Farewell to the clear lake ; the mountains blue ; The grove, whose tufted paths our eyes pursue Delighted ; the white cottage in the dell By yon old church ; the smoke from that small cell Amid the hills slow rising ; and the hue Of summer air, fresh, delicate, and true, Breathing of light and life, the master spell ! Work of the Poet's eye, the Painter's hand, How close to nature art thou, yet how free From earthly stain ! the beautiful, the bland. The rose, the nightingale resemble thee ; — Thou art most like the blissful Fairy-land Of Spenser, or Mozart's fine melody. S\0 SONNETS. XVII. WRITTEN IN A FRIEND'S ALBUM. Book of memorials fair ! I cannot trace On thy white page the quaintly pencilled bower ; I have no skill to bid the vivid flower Bloom 'mid thy leaves ; nor with the immortal grace Of proud Apollo, or the goddess face Of Hebe deck them. 'Las ! my ruder power Can but bear record faint of many an hour Passed thou mute witness in thy dwelling-place. Oh happiest hours, that ever me befall, Rich in commingling mind, in fancy's play ! Oh happiest hours, whether in music's thrall, Or converse sweet as music pass the day ! Oh happiest hours ! and most beloved of all The cherished friend that speeds them on their way ! SONNETS. 311 XVIII. ON VISITING DONNINGTON CASTLE, SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE LATEST RESIDENCE OF CHAUCER, AND CELEBRATED FOR ITS RESISTANCE TO THE ARMY OF THE PARLIAMENT DURING THE CIVIL WARS. Oh, for some gentle spirit to surround With clinging ivy thy high-seated towers, Fair Donnington, and wipe from Chaucer's bowers The last rude touch of war ! All sight, all sound Of the old strife boon nature from the ground Hath banished. Here the trench no longer lours. But, like a bosky dell, begirt with flowers And garlanded with May, sinks dimpling round 312 SONNETS. A very spot for youthful lover's dreams In the prime hour. Grisildis' mournful lay, The " half-told tale *" would sound still sweeter here. Oh for some hand to hide with ivy spray War's ravages, and chase the jarring themes Of King and State, Roundhead and Cavalier ! " Or call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." Milton of Chaucer. — // Pemeroso. SONNETS. 313 XIX. WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT FROM SOME FRIENDS. I could have lengthened out one fleeting hour Into an age ; sitting at set of sun Under the long, low, open shed where won The mellow evening light through leaf and flower ; Playing the hostess in that summer bower To such dear guests, whilst rose the antique song By those young sister voices poured along So wild, so pure, so clear, full of sweet power Ringing and vibrating. It was a lay That sent a smile into the very heart ; As when the early lark shoots up in May With his blithe matins, rarer than all art Save this. Oh happiest and most fleeting day, Why art thou gone so soon ! Why must we part ! 314 SONNETS. XX ON AN INTENDED REMOVAL FROM A FAVOURITE RESIDENCE. November, 1820. Adieu, beloved and lovely home ! Adieu, Thou pleasant mansion, and ye vv^aters bright, Ye lawns, ye aged elms, ye shrubberies light (My own cotemporary trees, that grew Even with my growth ;) ye flowers of orient hue, A long farewell to all ! Ere fair to sight In summer-shine ye bloom with beauty dight, Your halls we leave for scenes untried and new. Oh shades endeared by memory's magic power With strange reluctance from your paths I roam ! But home lives not in lawn, or tree, or flower. Nor dwells tenacious in one only dome. Where smiling friends adorn the social hour, Where they, the dearest are, there will be home. SONNETS. 315 XXI. ON THE DEPARTURE OF A FRIEND TO LISBON FOR THE RECOVERY OF HER HEALTH. Nov. 1813. Thou freshest spirit, that on Lisbon's shore Didst shake health-breathing airs so cheerily From thy soft wing, as oft the murmuring bee Scatters the full-blown rose, — the cannon's roar Scared thee, mild spirit ! and the flood of gore, Tinging the bosom of thy heaving sea, Defiled thy snowy feet, and thou didst flee From ills thou could'st not cure and must deplore. War's demons are gone by. Thy lovely strand Is purified. Oh spirit thither bend Thine airy flight, and wave thy healing wand O'er yon fair form where grace and virtue blend ! Then proudly waft her to her native land — Her, loved and blest, the mother, wife and friend. olG SONNETS. XXII. WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1825. Within my little garden is a flower, A tuft of flowers, most like a sheaf of corn, The lilac blossomed daisy that is born At Michaelmas, wrought by the gentle power Of this sweet Autumn into one bright shower Of bloomy beauty ; Spring hath nought more fair, Four sister butterflies inhabit there, Gay gentle creatures ! Round that odorous bower They weave their dance of joy the livelong day, Seeming to bless the sunshine ; and at night Fold their enamelled wings as if to pray. Home-loving pretty ones ! would that I might For richer gifts as cheerful tribute pay, So meet the rising dawn, so hail the parting ray ! SONGS. SONGS. SV I. Evening's richest colours glowing- Skirt the golden West ; Snowy clouds, like vapours flowing, Crown its beamy crest. I've nothing seen so rosy red, Nor aught so brightly pure. Since Laura's cheek with blushes spread, And Laura's brow demure. O'er its pebbly channel creeping Flows the murmuring tide ; Through the gloomy pine-grove sweeping Twilight breezes glide. I've heard no sound so softly clear, Nor breathed such balmy air, Since the sweet voice of Laura dear, The sigh of Laura fair. 318 SONGS. II. Sweet is the balmy evening hour ; And mild the glow-worm's light ; And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower, With pearly dew-drops bright. I love to loiter by the rill And catch each trembling ray ; — Fair as they are, they mind me still Of fairer things than they. What is the breath of closing flowers But feeling's gentlest sigh ? What are the dew-drop's crystal showers But tears from pity's eye ? What are the glow-worms by the rill But fancy's flashes gay ? I love them, for they mind me still Of one more fair than they. SONGS. S2l III. 'Tis a gay summer morn, and the sunbeams dance On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance, Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose. And in that rosy bower a lady so bright Sits telling her beads for her own absent knight. Whilst her little son plays round the fond mother's knee And the wandering stock-dove is scared by his glee. 'Tis a calm summer eve, and the moonbeams dance On the glittering waves of the rapid Durance, Where Sir Reginald's castle its broad shadow throws O'er the bay and the linden, the cypress and rose. But the pitiless spoiler is master there, For gone is the lady, and gone the young heir ; The good knight hath perished beyond the salt sea. And they, like the stock-dove, poor wanderers be. <\oo O'ii'Z SONGS. IV. The lily bells are wet with dew, The morning sunbeams kiss the rose, And rich of scent and bright of hue The summer garden glows. Then up, and weave a garland, sweet, To braid thy raven hair, Before the noontide's withering heat Strike on those flowerets fair. A flickering cloud is in the sky, A m\u'muring whisper in the gale ; They tell that stormy rain is nigh, Or desolating hail. Then up, and weave a garland, sweet, To deck thy glossy hair, Nor wait till evening tempests beat Upon thofcc flowerelb fair. SONGS. 323 V. With hound and horn and huntsman's call They chase the fallow deer ; — And thou, the noblest of them all, Why dost thou loiter here ? Thou canst not deem within her bower Thine own true love to see ; — Dost thou not know at matin hour I ne'er can come to thee ? My sister's voice is on the stair, All in her maiden glee ; My mother's flitting every where, And calling still on me. Y 2 iyZi SONGS. My father's by the southern wall, Pruning the old vine tree : My brothers playing in the hall ; — And all are wanting me. Then ofF, and mount thy gallant steed To hunt the fallow deer ; Off, off, and join the chase with speed, Nor loiter longer here. At eventide my mother sits, Her knitting on her knee, And wakes by starts, and dreams by lits; But never dreams of me. At eventide my sister fair Steals to the great oak tree ; I may not tell who meets her there, — ■ But nought want they of me. SONGS. 325 At eventide, beside the bowl, With some old comrade free, My father many a song doth troll But never thinks on me. Off, then, with hound, and echoing horn To chase the fallow deer ; — Nor deem again at peep of morn To meet thy true-love here. ANTIGONE. A PORTRAIT IN VERSE. From the Oedipus Tyrannus, the OEdipus Coloneus, and the Antigone of Sophocles. ANTIGONE. 'Twas noon ; beneath the ardent ray Proud Thebes in all her glory lay ; On pillar'd porch, on marble wall, On temple, portico, and hall, The summer sunbeams gaily fall, Bathing, as in a flood of light. Each sculptured frieze and column bright. Dirce's pure stream meanders there, A silver mirror clear and fair ; Now giving back the deep-blue sky, And now the city proud and high, And now the sacred grove ; VoO ANTIGONE. uo And sometimes on its wave a shade, Making the light more lovely, play'd,- When some close-brooding dove Flew from her nest, on rapid wing, For needful food across the spring, Or souc^ht her home of love. The very air in that calm hour, Seem'd trembling with the conscious power Of its own balminess ; The herbage, if by light foot press'd, Sent up sweet odours from its breast ; — Sure, if coy happiness E'er dwelt on earth, 'twas in that clime Of beauty, in that noon-day prime Of thriUing pleasantness ! But who are they before the gate Of Thebes convened in silent state ? Sad grey -haired men, with looks bow'd down, Slaves to a tyrant's haughty frown ; ANTKiONE. 331 And he the wicked king, and she The royal maid Antigone, Passing to death. Awhile she laid Her clasp'd hands on her heart, and stay'd Her firmer step, as if to look On the fair world which she forsook ; And then the sunbeams on her face Fell, as on sculptured Nymph or Grace, Lighting her features with a glow That seemed to mock their patient woe. She stay'd her onward step, and stood A moment's space ; — oh, what a flood Of recollected anguish stole In that brief moment o'er her soul ! The concentrated grief of years, The mystery, horror, guilt, and tears, The story of her life past by, E'en in the heaving of a sigh ! 332 ANTIGONE. She thought upon the bhssful hour Of infancy, when, as a flower Set in the sun, she grew, Without a fear, without a care, Enjoying, innocent and fair, As buoyant as the mountain air, As pure as morning dew ; 'Till burst at once like lightning's flame, The tale we tremble but to name, Of them from whom her being came, Poor CEdipus, and one, The wretched yet unconscious dame, Who wedded with her son ! Then horror fast on horror rose : She maddening died beneath her woes, Whilst crownless, sightless, hopeless, he Dared to outlive that agony. Through many a trackless path and wild The blind man and his duteous child ANTIGONE 333 Wandered, till pitying Theseus gave The shelter brief, the mystic grave. One weary heart finds rest at last : But, when to Thebes the maiden pass'd, The god's stern wrath was there : — Her brothers each by other slain, And one upon the bloody plain Left festering in the sun and rain, Tainting the very air : For none, the haughty Creon said, On pain of death should yield the dead Burial, or tear, or sigh ; And, for alone she feebly strove To pay the decent rites of love, The pious maid must die. She paus'd — and in that moment rose As in a mirror all her woes ; She spake, — the flush across her cheek Told of the woe she would not speak, 334 ANTIGONE. * As a brief thought of" Hsemon stole With bitter love across lier soul. '' I die, — and what is death to me But freedom from long misery ? Joyful to fall before my time, I die ; and, tyrant, hear my crime : I did but strive his limbs to shield From the gaunt prowlers of the field ; I did but weave, as nature weaves, A shroud of grass and moss and leaves ; I did but scatter dust to dust, * Antigone was beloved by Haemon the son of the tyrant Creon, who, after the death of his mistress, killed himself for grief. In the fine play of Sophocles, Antigone only once alludes to her unhappy lover : " Oh my dearest Haemon ! And is it thus thy father doth disgrace thee?" In the original her complaint consists but of one line, which, as the translator, Dr. Francklin, observes, " a modern writer would have spun out to many a page." ANTIGONE. oS5 As the desert wind on marble bust ; I did but as the patient wren And ihe kind redbreast do for men. I die — and what is death to me ? But tremble in thy tyranny, Tyrant ! and ye, base slaves of power, Tremble at freedom's coming hour I I die — and death is bliss to me !" Then, with a step erect and free, With brow upraised and even breath, The royal virgin passed to death. INDEPENDENCE. These stanzas were occasioned by reading the following para- graph in an old magazine. " There now resides in Cawsand a man who has not slept in a bed for thirty years. He was a sailor in his youth and unfortunate. He always refused an asylum in the workhouse, subsisting on the miserable pittance of two-pence or three-pence a day, earned by carrying pitchers of water, and indig- nantly preferring this to living by the bounty of others. In the coldest night of winter he would sleep under a boat on the beach of Cawsand ; at other times he took refuge in the cliffs of the rocks, and couched himself with the raven and the otter." I have endeavoured to give more animation to this little poem, by putting the sentiments into the mouth of the hero of the tale ; the anecdote itself seems to me a fine instance of English spirit. INDEPENDENCE. '' Talk not to me of food oi bed Or the warm winter coat : — Whence comes the meat with which you're fed ? What does that dress denote ? *' What is that room from storms aloof In which so snug you he ? What arc they all, coat, bed and roof? Badges of slavery. '' Must you not cringe and beg and fawn, Slave even to the clocks, Your matin call the bolts undrawn, Your vesper creaking locks ? z 2 340 INDEPENDENCE. '* Must you not in that house miscalled Of miserable sloth, — Your mind and body both enthralled, Degraded, sunken both ;- *' Must you not bear the bitter taunt Of oft imputed blame ? Your only crimes old age and want ! Disease your only shame 1 •* Must you not crouching ask the boon Avarice is forced to give ; And hear them calculate how soon You'll die, how long can live ? '* And must you not — Oh direst woe ! — Seem grateful, bow and smile, Thank them from whom those blessinVATLINGTON IJILL. To judge of man's inconstant state, Even he confessed thee good and great. How was the Stuart fallen, when thou Didst brave his power with dauntless brow I How raised when Falkland by him stood As great as thou, as wise, as good ! Oh who, by equal fame misled, Who shall the righteous cause decide, When for his king Lord Falkland bled, When Hampden for his country died I IX. How boldly yonder cloud so bright Throws out that clump of trees ; Scarce, till it crost the ethereal light, Like the wren's plume on snow-ridge white, The keenest eye that wood could seize. 'Tis distant Farringdon I deem ; And far below Thames' silver stream WATLINGTON HILL. 350 Tliricis through the fair romantic bridge or WalUngford's old town ; And high above the Whittenham ridge Seems the gay scene to crown. But what is that, which to the right, Upon the horizon's utmost verge, A fairy picture glitters bright, Like sea-foam on the crested surge ? Is it the varying fleecy cloud That takes in sport the figure proud, Where domes and turrets seem to rise, And spiry steeples mock our eyes ? No ; real is that lovely scene, 'Tis England's boast, 'tis learning's Queen, 'Tis Oxford. Not the unlettered maid May dare approach her hallowed shade ; Nor chant a requiem to each name That wakened there to deathless fame ; Nor bid the Muse's blessing rest For ever in her honuuicd brcaot, 3G0 WATLINGTON HILL. Oh, when I dared the Muse to name Did it not wake my spirit's flame ? Did it not guide my eye, my soul . To yonder distant shadowy knoll ? And whisper in each joyous thrill 'Tis Milton's home, 'tis Forest Hill * ? Yes, there he lived, and there he sung, When life and hope and love were young ; There, grace and genius at his side, He won his half-disdainful bride ; And there the lark " in spite of sorrow," ' Still at his '* window bade good morrow " Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine." * The village from which Milton married his first wife, Miss Mary Powel, and the supposed scene of L'Allegro. For a very interesting account of this interesting spot the reader is referred to a letter from Sir William Jones to Lady Spencer, contained in Lord Teignniouth's edition of Sir William Jones's Works» WATLINGTON HILL. 361 Oh happy hill ! thy summer vest Lives in his richest colouring drest ; Oh happy hill ! thou saw'st him blest. Thou saw'st him blest, the greatest man That ever trod life's grovelling span — Shakspeare alone with him could try, Undazzled and untired the sky. And thou didst view his blooming charm, That eagle plumed like the dove, Whose very sleeping grace could warm The Italian maiden's heart to love *. Tiiou saw'st him in his happier hour, When life was love, and genius power ; * In Mr. Todd's Life of Milton there is a wild romantic story of an Italian lady of high birth, who in travelling through England saw Milton, then very young, asleep upon a bank. Enamoured of his beauty, she wrote some verses expressive of her admiration, laid them on his hand, and left him still sleeping. This incident is said to have occasioned his travels in Italy, where he hoped to meet his unknown fair one ; and to have been the first cause of his assiduous cultivation of Italian literature, afterwards so dear to him for its own sake. 362 WATLINGTON HILL. When at his touch the awakened string All joyous hailed the laughing spring ; And, like the sun, his radiant eyes Glanced on thy earthly Paradise. Thou didst not see those eyes so bright For ever quenched in cheerless night ; Thou didst not hear his anguished lays Of " evil tongues and evil days ;" Thou saw'st but his gay youth, fan- spot — Happiest for what thou sawest not. And happy still ! Though in thy sod No blade remain by Milton trod ; Though the sweet gale that sweeps thy plain No touch of Milton's breath retain ; Yet here the baids of later days Shall roam to view thee and to praise. Here Jones, ere yet his voice was fame, A lone romantic votary came ; He too is gone, untimely gone ! But lured by him full many a one WATLINGTON HILL. 3G Shall tread thy hill on pilgrimage ; And minstrel, patriot, or sage, Who bent not o'er his Indian bier, Shall mourn him with his Milton here : For till our English tongue be dead, From freedom's breast till life be fled, Till Poesy's quick pulse be still None shall forsake thee, Forest Hill. XI. Few are the scenes of power to chain The rapt enthusiast's mind, Like that where Milton's wondrous strain Still seems to linger o'er the plain Or whisper in the wind. Not pent within the crowded town. Where meanness sweeps away renown ; But fresh, and innocent, and fair, As if the mighty master there Still flung his witch-notes on the air. D .364 WATLINGTON HILL. Yet taste and fancy's visions gay Life's deeper feelings shun, And fade at friendship's light away, Like stars before the sun. The spirits of the honour'd dead Before one living form have fled : For here beneath fair Sherburn's shade * My Zosia dwelt, my Polish maid, My friend most tender and most true, My friend ere friendship's name we knew ; The partner of those blissful hours When the world seemed one bank of flowers, Life but a summer's cloudless morn. And love a rose without a thorn. Fleeting as that illusive day. Was friendship's joy, was Zosia's stay; * Sherburn Lodge, the seat of the late Countess Dowager of Mac- clesfield, under whose care Zosia Choynowska, the early and beloved friend of the author was placed for education. WATLINGTON HILL. oG5 For when o'er her majestic tbrm Youth shed his manthng roses warm, When beauty saw her work matured, And grandeur awed whom grace allured, The imperious mandate harshly bore The finished charmer from our shore ; Bore her from friendship; bliss, and love, Envy, neglect, contempt to prove From hearts, who frozen as their clime. Would antedate the work of time. And nip her beauties in their prime. Oh, ever-loved, return again ! Return ! and soon the blooming train Of childish friends shall meet to share Thy soft caress, my Polish fair ! Again shall view thy sparkling eye And Empress-form admiringly ; Each emulously crowding round ; Each listening for one silver sound ; 3C6 WATLINGTOX HILL, And thou to all, with Qnecn-like smile, Wilt sweet attention shew the while, Of kindness full and courtesy ; Though one alone, — Oh happiest she ! — Scarce from thy tongue shall greeting hear, Or find thy love, but in thy tear. The dews of heaven fall not so sweet As friendship's tears with joy replete ; Haste on my breast such dews to rain, My ever-loved, return again ! XIT. The pause hath checked my spirit glad, — Deep doubting hope is ever sad ; But sadder thoughts now intervene To cloud that sweet and tranquil scene. Direr than absence is the foe Who waits to give the fatal blow ; WATLINGTON HILL. 367 Weeping within that mansion fail- Sits fihal love, Death hovers there. He comes not now to lead the bloom Of youth to an undreaded tomb ; He comes not now to tame the pride Of matron health confirmed and tried ; Not towering man provokes his rage ; 'Tis woman, feebleness, and age. And yet nor beauty early cropped, Nor manhood's strength untimely dropped, Could waken more regretful sighs Or more with sorrow blend surprise. For she, his noble prey, had stood Like an old oak in Sherburn wood. In deepest verdure richly decked Whose ample branches waved unchecked ; And though dead boughs commingling grew, Abrupt and bare, of darker hue ; Though weeds minute and yellow moss With varied tints the bark emboss; — SG8 AVATLINGTON HILL. Yet lovely was its pleasant shade ; Lovely the trunk with moss inlaid ; Lovely the long-haired lichens grey ; Lovely its pride and its decay. Such Macclesfield thou wast ! Old Time Himself had spared thy beamy prime Uninjured, as on Greece's strand He views the works of Phidias' hand, And bids the sun, the dews, the air Perfection's noblest image spare. So time had passed o'er thee, bright dame; All changed, but thou wast still the same, Still skilled to give the fading flower More brilliant life by painting's power ; Still skilled the nimble steel to ply With quick inventive industry ; Still skilled to frame the moral rhyme, Or point with Gospel truths the lay sublime. And rarer yet, 'mid age's frost The fire of youth thou had'st not lost ; WATLINGTON HILL. 369 Still at another's bliss could'st glow ; Still melt to hear another's woe ; Still give the poor man's cares relief ; Still bend to soothe the mourner's grief. Though near a century's course had sped And bleached thy venerable head, By age's vice and woe untold Thy years remained — thou wast not old ! And so to live, and so to die, Is endless rare felicity. But there is one *, whose ready tear Bedews thy pale cheek on thy bier ; One shrinking from the admiring gaze, Whom T may love but dare not praise. Oh friend of Zosia ! friend of all Whom misery, pain, and want enthral ! Be comforted. Though ne'er again Thy mother's hand thy hand shall strain, * The Plight Honourable Lady Mary Paiker; now, alas! also dead. B h ii70 WATLINGTON HILL. Though never shall she feel thy cares," Congenial joys her spirit shares, — - Congenial, yet superior, given By sister Angels in her native Heaven. Oh who would weep the loved-one dead When death is bliss 1 Be comforted. XIII. Why thus in fond though vain relief With weeping praise perpetuate grief ? Why, on the dead, the absent Muse, And joy from present friends refuse ? Why dwell on yonder mournful dome, And shun those friends' delightful home ? 'Twere hard to sing thy varying charm, Thou Cottage, Mansion, Village, Farm *, * Watlington Farm, the residence of the late WilHam Hay ward, Esq. It is saddening to reflect that of the circle of friends for whose amusement this little poem was originally written, scarcely one now remains alive. WATLINGTON HILL. o7 I Thou beautiful epitome Of all that useful is and rare, Where Comfort sits with smiling air, And laughing Hospitality. 'Twere hard to sing, — and harder still The dearer charms those halls that fill. 'Twere hard to sing, — the sun is low, Quick to the lovely Farm we go, Its strongest spells to find ; And clustered round the blazing fire, When Beauty, Music, Wit inspire, Oh they that learn not to admire Dull must they be, and deaf, and blind ! Bb2 WESTON GROVE. A DESCRIPTIVE POEM. WESTON GROVE*. I. Who hath not met in meadows gay Th' illusive touch of morn, The freshness of the dewy spray, The matin lark's melodious lay, The brightness of the herald ray, Which tells that day is born ? Who hath not sought the mellow glow The topaz-tinted beam Whose lambent glories seem to grow Lapping the woods above, below, In evening's golden stream ? * The beautiful seat of Willian! Cliambeilayne, Esq, M. P. on the Southampton Water. 57G AVESTON GHOVE. Who hath not marked the river pale Just gleaming through night's misty veil ? Some scenes morn's chastened beams require ; And some rich evening's tints of fire ; And some the silvery moon : The fairest still, like ladies bright, Look loveliest in the clearest light ! — Ye who would gaze from \Yeston's height Go seek its shade at noon. II. 'Tis now the very hour to see That scene of wide-spread witchery : For now on Weston's verdant side Meridian radiance straying, Seems through the colonnade to glide, Or 'mid the tufted arbours slide Like ringlets on the snowy pride Of beauty's bosom playing. WESTON fJROVE. S77 Whilst o'er the pure and deep bbic sky The fleecy clouds like smoke-wreaths fly, Borne lightly on the sweetest gale That ever filled the swelling sail. Bright as the sun that landscape proud Extends ; and various as the cloud. I might as soon describe a dream As tell where falls each golden beam ; As soon might reckon up the sand, Sweet Weston, on thy sea-beat strand, As count each beauty there ; Hills which the purple heath-bell shield, Forest and village, lawn and field, Ocean and earth, with all they yield Of glorious or of fair. III. Yet e'en amid that brilliant scene Close to the left one wood so green 378 WESTON GIIOVR. Fixes the wandering eye : Fringing tlie margin of the waves, Southampton's tide its verdure laves, Whilst one small fort the fury braves Of wind, and sea, and sky. Even to behold that solemn shade, " For melancholy musing made," The pensive heart would inly say There the world-weary wretch may stray, There best in Nature's temple pray. And there in Netley's mouldering cells The solitary nightbird dwells ; There in each moss-grown stone we trace The pious tenants of the place ; There in each lingering footstep tread Upon the unmonumented dead. Yes, image of Rome's fallen power, This, this is Netley's hallowed bower ! And it is holy still. Each wall And silent aisle and roofless hall. WESTON GROVE. .'^TJ) The chapel, whqre luxuriant trees Wave proudly in the sighing' breeze, Each gothic arch and fretted nich, And venerable window rich, Where deftly ivy wreaths supply The light and graceful tracery, Each stone decayed, and tottering stair, Each mark of ruined grandeur there All to the charmed heart whisper prayer. Methinks that e'en from Netley's gloom To look upon the tide Seems gazing from the shadowy tomb On life in all its pride. And aching with the o'erpowering light The mind shrinks dazzled from the sight. IV. Yet soon the buoyant spirit springs On hope and joy's exulting wings 380 WESTON GROVE. That lovely wave to view ; Its shores with softest verdure green, Seats, cots, and villages between, And graceful boats and vessels sheen Spotting its surface blue. And now that brighter beauty gleams, From the sweet air and sparkling beams, How pleasant 'twere to tempt the breeze And on these smooth undansrerous seas In mimic danger ride ; To hear the freshening summer gale, Whistling and flapping in the sail, And mock the feathery billows pale Dash o'er the rocking side ; Whilst, gilding strand, and wood, and ground, The glorious sunbeams dance around, And turn to lovely mockery The chiding of the angry sea. WESTON GROVE. o8 1 V. 'Tis hard such cheerful scenes to leave : But sweeter far it is at eve, When the vexed billows cease to heave, AVhen sleeps th' untroubled air, Upon the glassy wave to glide, Scarce conscious of the gentle tide, That ripples still the boat beside, So silent and so fair : So silent, that the light oar seems To break on evening's fairy dreams ; So fair, that e'en where brightest streams The moon's long radiance o'er the flood, Where Calshot spreads its nightly beams Or cottage fires peep through the wood, Though lovely every starlike ray They match not that small pearly spray. Oh, 'tis in such a moonlight hour That Music best asserts her power! 382 WESTON GROVE. Then if the mellow flute prolong- Some wandering note, some artless song, Renewed and broken like the strains When the lorn nightingale complains ; Or woman's voice such sweetness pour As soothes the Adriatic shore, What time the rapt Venetian woos The magic of his Tasso's muse ; Then more than passion's strong controul It lulls, it charms, it lifts the soul ; It strikes the chords with feeling fraught ; It stirs the living spring of thought ; And to the syren fancy flings Dreams of unutterable things, Forms, which like summer lightning fly. And tints, which like the rainbow die. VI. Oh gentlest wave ! upon thy breast Pleasure's light burthens love to rest, WESTON GROVE. 38J Mixed only with the lazy rafl, Or the laborious fisher's craft. Thee war defiles not, blessed wave ! No, though the very drops that lave Thy peaceful shores have bathed the side Of many a ship of war ; Though thou hast viewed our navy ride In peerless triumph o'er the tide, Thou saw'st unstained the ensangumed pride, Thou heard'st the guns afar. Spithead's long moving forest here Just breaks the cloudy line, As gleams the grass-top's slender spear In horizontal sunset clear. As taper and as fine. And yonder ship in proud array That by St. Helen's floats, Yon Indiaman with pennons gay Her barges and her boats ; 381 WESTON GROVE. She scarcely to the straining eye Seems more of space to occupy Than one small flake of gossamer That flies ere one can say 'tis there ! VII. That ship were beautiful to see In all her gorgeous majesty : Her streamers glittering in the sun, Her topsails to the breezes bent, — A Queen let loose her course to run, And rein each stubborn element. But many a cheek is pale with fears, And many an eye is wet with tears That gazes on her charms ;-r- The mother, to whose aching breast The livelong night her boy was prest, Now folds her childless arms Condemned through long long years to trace The anguish of that last embrace. WESTON GROVE. 385 There the betrothed maiden caught The fond, the parting vow, Scarce had she owned one tender thought, Scarce breathed a sigh till now ; Till now that on the crowded deck She hung upon her lover's neck. *Twas chiefly then the parting pain That rent her heart, that pierced her brain ; But soon the fear so undefined So terrible will fill her mind ; And then the very lightest breeze That strips the sere autumnal trees ; The flickering rack ; the sun-gilt cloud Hung in midsky, a column proud ; The wave as calm as infant's breath ; All to her soul shall speak of death ; — A death unblest by mortal knell, A fate which none returns to tell, Like theirs who in the Blenheim fell. c c OQ/' SG WESTON GROVE. VIII. Such thoughts, though all uncalled they dart, As shades in moonlight forests start, Yet to the eye and to the heart They dim the ocean's smile. Where shall the saddened spirit rest ? Where, but upon thy verdant breast, Moulded by Grace, by Nature drest, Most loved most lovely Isle ! Fair Isle ! thou lingerest on the eye Like the sweet world of Faery, Which brightens in the Italian beam When Reggio's towers reflected gleam *. For all along thy lengthening coast From Ryde's romantic town, To where, like threatening giants tost. The beetling Needles frown ; * It can sCvircely be necessary to mention that I allude to the sup- posed operations of the Fata Morgana in the Faro di Messina. WESTON GROVE. 387 Each lonely cot, or woody bay, Or silver stream, or village gay, Has caught the sweetly blended charm Of distance soft, of sunshine warm ; A bloomy green of shadowy hue, Like meadows pale with morning dew ; Outline so tender, so unfelt It seems in sea and sky to melt ; Colours, which language cannot teach, Graces, which art despairs to reach. IX. Short distance seems to intervene 'Twixt that enchanted land. And the long variegated scene, Where, forming tiny harbours green Mid mimic promontories seen. New Forest stretches to the strand, c c 2 S88 WESTON GROVE, I marvel not the waters blue Are dappled with reflected hue Of mansion spire and cot ; I marvel not that through the trees The light smoke curling on the breeze In glens which scarce the eye can seize, Points many a peopled spot ; I marvel not that all invade, For all, Ytene, love thy shade. The sportsman, though he little reck Of scenery grand or rude, Will oft his mettled courser check To view thy solitude ; Then dart across thy velvet lawn As jocund as the bounding fawn. The lover, joyless though he be, Even he delights thy paths to see ; And there, while fern and holly meet Encompassing his green retreat. WESTON GROVE. 389 Close by a rill where gray with moss An aged aspen falls across, He lies, and listens to the sound Of leaves and streamlets murmuring round, Till half he deems the water clear Reflects the form he holds so dear. The maid — no love sick maiden she ! Blythe as the warbling bird and free, Joys with May-blossoms from the tree To deck her lonely bower ; Or seek 'mid brake and bramble bred, Just peeping from its mossy bed, The anemone's fair flower. The minstrel Oh each leafy spray Is vocal with the minstrel's lay ! His is the exquisite delight To ramble here at noon of night. And by the glow-worm's trembling light Hold converse with the Fay. 390 WESTON GKOVE. X. All love Ytene's pleasant shades ; Yet rapidly the forest fades, As, ch'clmg still from left to right, Southampton bursts upon the sight. How proudly on that lovely town This lovelier villa glances down, And stoops to art from nature's crown ! Castle and street, and quay and boat, Blent in one busy picture float, Gay, laughing, brilliant, debonair, As if nor woe nor want nor care. Nor aught but bliss could harbour there ; Though still the walls of antique mould Tell the proud tale of days of old : They saw him burst from youthful sport. They echoed to his mailed tread, Who England's noblest battle led, And won a realm at Agincourt. WESTON GROVE. ol) ! XI. Is there a better, brighter fame, Than waits on British Harry's name ? Embalmed in history's stately page The hero of the heroic age ; By Shakspeare's tricksy fancy drest Lord of the sword and of the jest ; The deftest knight at joust or dance, The conqueror of conquering France I Though centuries have rolled away His fame is fresh as yesterday. But why should truant fancy sing Through the bright noontide hours, Of glittering town and warlike king, When she might wake the trembling string To Weston's peaceful bowers ? Yet, lovely Weston, need I tell That art's assembled beauties dwell Beneath thy classic dome ? 302 WESTON GROVE. The unmouldering pride of Greece's land, The glories of the Ausonian strand, The rival gems of Britain's hand. All here have found a home With woman's taste, and man's fine sense, And shy retiring eloquence. Oh why from Fame doth Genius fly And shun the world's admiring eye ? Tis ever so. He towers still An eagle on his aerie hill ; Or, like the golden beetle, glows Close nestled in his mansion rose. Whilst we, the ungifted many, stray, Like chattering jays, from spray to spray ; Or like the gnats in evening sky, Wind the small horn of Poesy. THE END. PKINTED BY K. GILBERT, ST. JOHN 'is SQUARE. LONDON. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Ottid DEC 19 ^5*"^ Mnt .14: ^ii4d MAY 27 1948 JUN 4 134a ?^ fl .. .i-^^ P-^i LD 21-10nm-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 '-? 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